


Underneath

by some1_around



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Big Brother Dean, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean Needs A Hug, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Parent/Child Incest, M/M, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Sadness, Self-Harm, Slow To Update, So much angst, Suicidal Thoughts, Teacher Anna, Teacher Gabriel, Teen Dean Winchester, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-03-31 21:13:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3993094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/some1_around/pseuds/some1_around
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life for Dean Winchester is set on a constant, never changing, depressing repeat. Every day is the same, and with each day, Dean finds himself less and less willing to keep trudging through the pain and the nothing that is all he feels. But he has to take care of his brother so he keeps going. After all, life isn't as hard as he's making it out to be. Other people have it worse. But does that mean he doesn't have it bad? </p><p>With help from his teachers and classmate, can Dean learn that maybe it's okay to ask for help every now and then?</p><p>[ON INDEFINITE HIATUS]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Work in progress, so please excuse for slow updates.

Dean has always known that how completely inconsequential he is. Well, he’s known since… somewhere between when he was four and fifth grade. Somewhere in those slightly less monotonous years of his short and painful life he realized that his existence meant nothing. If he died, there would be one person mourning him. Actually mourning him. Sure, teachers and students form his school would say nice things, but none of them knew him. Knew who he was other than the quiet kid in the background with the unnoticeable looks, the kid with the average grades, the kid with the maybe downplayed looks, the kid who no one cared about because he simply had nothing in him worth caring about. Completely irrelevant to everybody else’s lives, nothing more than a slight blip on a record of life where everything else ran smoothly. That’s what he was. That’s all he was.

Except for one small kid, and to that kid, Dean was the world. His name was Sam, and he was that one mourner, the only person who kinda sorta knew Dean, if only the parts he let show. Sam was Dean’s younger brother, but Dean was more like a father figure to the six-year-old that a sibling. Whenever Sam needed something, Dean was there. Whenever Sam was upset, Dean’s shoulder was ready for use and waterproof. Whenever Sam needed food, Dean figured out some way of getting it. And if Dean died, then Sam would never get over it, never forget the brother that he maybe took for granted.

For Dean, everyday was a repeat, a carbon copy of the day before with slight changes on the weekends. Everyday was made of fake smiles and breaking hearts and held back sobs. It was made of carefully covering clothing and paying just enough attention, flying just far enough under the radar to remain undetected. Any real thought he exuded in his day-to-day life was always directed towards the younger brother who depended on him for life.

Life became very predictable and very tedious when everyday is the same, especially when that same numbs you into a space where it becomes increasingly harder to feel anything. There had been a time when Dean had hated his life, but that time had passed. Now… now it was hard, so very hard for him to feel anything all. Except cold. Dean always felt cold.

 ---

Dean swung his six-year-old brother up off the sidewalk and rested him on his shoulders. Sam laughed delightedly and squeezed Dean’s hair in his tiny fists, and Dean didn’t bother to tell him it hurt.

They were walking home from school, Sam from his second grade class that he was already acing, and Dean from his sophomore years that he was already struggling with. It wasn’t that he was stupid – multiple IQ tests by the school board had proved that – it was just he could never focus in class, too caught up in his problems or sleep deprivation. And he didn’t care. God, it was so, so hard to care about things. He honestly had no idea how people did it, maintained friendships, good grades, and happy home lives. The amount of energy Dean would have to exert for just one of those things would have put him in a coma. _Oh well,_ thought Dean, eyes unfocusing as he walked, _everybody is just stronger than me, I guess_.

Dean, with Sam on his shoulders, turned the corner and walked onto their pretty little street, with pretty little neat suburban houses, and pretty little gardens, and pretty little white picket fences. Dean paused in front of the white gate leading to his house and surveyed the street. Their house was as neat and pretty as all the rest, but Dean knew it held horrors. What masks were all those other houses wearing? Dean sighed and pushed forward, moving up the walk and taking Sam off his shoulders before he started up the steps. It wasn’t worth thinking about, he decided. Everyone else would have easily been able to deal with Dean’s life, he was just too weak. That was the problem. His life was fine, but Dean was not.

Dean scooted Sammy behind his back before opening the door and hustling in, closing it quickly behind him. Both moves were practiced and expected, and both seemed to be necessary as a pot clashed up the wall a mere two inches from Dean’s face, pottery shards raining down on Dean’s arms where they covered Sam.

Dean looked to where he knew john was standing at the foot of the stairs, another pot already in hand. Dean had long ago stopped trying to figure out where they came from. It only mattered where they ended up, which was usually alarmingly close to Dean’s skull.

Looking at him, Dean decided John was probably an eight on the Drunk-O-Meter, which while not being horribly bad was definitely not good. Most days John ended up a six or seven, and then Dean would only have some bruises or scratches. Anything above usually scared. Anything bellow – well, Dean was fairly sure John hadn’t been bellow a five in six years, but when he was it was mostly verbal insults and pushing Dean around.

“The fuck you so late?” John slurred, starting forward.

Dean picked up Sammy and moved into the kitchen where he set his brother down on the back staircase. “Go to your room, Sammy,” he said softly.

Sam’s big, tear filled hazel eyes raised to Dean’s. “Has Daddy been drinking the smelly stuff?” he asked, voice wobbly. Dean minutely nodded. “I don’t want Daddy to yell anymore.”

Dean sighed. “Just go, Sammy,” he urged. “If you’re quiet you can sleep in my bed tonight. Okay?”

Sam nodded and raced up the stairs. With a heavy gaze, Dean wandered back into the living room where his useless father was stumbling around and sputtering, trying to figure out where his oldest son had disappeared to. John whipped around when Dean entered the room and surged forward, grabbing his son by the throat and lifting him off the ground. Dean gasped, hands flying to the ones cutting off his air, his eyes widening because yeah, he knew John was a strong drunk but he hadn’t been expecting this.

John growled in his face, moving back until Dean’s back was pressed against the wall tightly, his muscles telling him something was desperately wrong with this situation. He gasped for breath, eyes focusing on John’s furious ones as tiny black dots began to dance in his vision.

John pulls away in disgust and Dean falls to the floor, coughing roughly and painfully against his bruised trachea. “Weak,” John spits out, kicking Dean harsphly in the ribs. “Useless. Worthless. Waste of breath. Retarded. Bitch.” Each word is punctuated with a kick to his side and Dean has fallen off his hands by retared. “Faggott,” John hisses, and he must be out of insults because the kicks after that don’t contain words, just the sharp physical pain of army boots that Dean is so familiar with.

Dean hears something snap and blood is filling his mouth as he bites his tongue in an effort to not start screaming. Something is wrong, terribly wrong, and Dean has the feeling that even when the kicks stop breathing isn’t going to be easy – if possible.

John pulls back after a minute, dropping an empty whiskey bottle by Dean’s head. Dean can barely close his mouth in time to stop glass from going down his throat, and even if he had an hour he doesn’t know if he’d have the strength to lift his hands to cover his face, so he doesn’t and Dean can feel the blood dripping down. His ruthless gasping for air is probably doing more harm to his trachea than it’s relieving pain in his lungs, but he can't exactly stop breathing. Dean wonders for a moment if the world would be better if he simply did, but then he thinks of Sammy. He doesn’t know if John doesn’t hit the youngest Winchester because he’s young, or because Dean keeps Sam away from him, or – and this is the one Dean suspects the strongest – because John actually gives two fucks about Sam, unlike the negative five he gives for Dean.

John spits on his son in repulsion before stumbling from the front room, off to find another beer. Dean flops onto his back on the floor, his breath slowly – and painfully – returning to him. He feels the glass cutting into his shoulder blades but doesn’t do anything to stop it. he doesn’t have the energy to. He passes out ar slower than he would like and barely has time to send a quick prayer of thanks to – to anyone that might be listening that the pain will be gone until he has to wake up and face the day again.


	2. Upon Waking

Waking up was harder than usual. Not that it was ever easy. On the rare occasions Dean actually managed to fall asleep, waking up did not mean a refreshing burst of life but rather a heaviness in his limbs and mind that took him hours to shake.

But this time he was woken by teary amber eyes and small hands on his shoulders and a pain so intense it filled his mind. Only years of keeping quiet kept him from screaming in pain.

“Dean!” Sammy squealed, wrapping tiny arms around Dean’s bleeding shoulders. “You wouldn’t wake up! Dad left for more smelly drink!”

“Sam,” Dean croaked, looking around them at the broken glass littering the floor. “Be careful, bud, there’s glass.”

Dean achingly stood up and picked Sam as well, carrying his crying brother up the stairs slowly and depositing him on his bed – he had promised after all. A glance at the clock told him he’d been out for two hours – that was two hours for glass to become embedded in his skin. Dean grimaced and tucked the blanket around Sam after checking to make sure he wasn’t injured.

“Wait here,” Dean whispers, and it feels like knives are scraping against the inside of his throat. “I’ll be back soon. Just need to – deal with some stuff.”

Sam nods and picks at the blanket as Dean leaves the room and collapses against the sink in the bathroom. A quick glance in the mirror tells him it’s as worse as it feels. With shaking hands Dean turns on the faucet and pulls the tweezers out of the cabinet.

Dean had to remove five pieces of broken glass from his back and blood is flowing freely from all the aggravated wounds, making him light headed and dizzy. He’s already missed too many days of school this month so he’s going to have to go back the next day. That means makeup for the bruises on his throat and an unseasonable sweatshirt, probably his red one in case any of the cuts open up during the day.

Dean studies his already horrifically scarred back in the mirror and decides he doesn’t need stitches. It’s a good thing too as the angle would be awkward as hell. Dean takes the gauze and bandages from the shelf and just manages to dress his wounds and stumble back to bed with Sammy – now fast asleep – before he passes out.

 ---

The next morning is hell. Sam demands to ride on Dean’s shoulders agin – now clad in the aforementioned red sweatshirt – and Dean grits his teeth through the pain to make his scared little brother smile and laugh for just a few minutes. The heavy makeup on his neck and face is chafing against his skin but he doesn’t exactly have another option.

Dean drops Sam off in front of his classroom before leaving for his homeroom and arriving only five minutes late. He slinks to the back of the classroom after the half-hearted reprimand from his teacher and sinks down into his chair. He quickly sits straight up when the glass cuts on his back touch the seat and scream in agony.

Dean trudges through the day and no one bats an eye at him until fifth period English with Ms. Anna. It always is Ms. Anna who knows when something wrong.

As the students disperse to work on their assigned project, Ms. Anna walks up to Dean’s desk. “Will you please speak with me in the hall for a moment, Mr. Winchester?” she asks kindly.

Unable to outright deny, Dean nods jerkily and stands up on unsteady legs, following the bright redhead into the hallway. Ms. Anna turns to face him with her arms crosses over her chest, gaze worried and evaluating, as she looks Dean up and down.

“Are you going to tell me what’s happened this time or am I going to have to drag you to the nurse’s office?” she asks, teacher face slipping.

Dean shrugs, grimacing slightly from the pain it causes him, but it’s better than speaking. He’s managed to avoid doing so all day except with Sam and he intends to continue doing so.

“What happened Dean?” asks Anna softer, eyes wide and worried. “And please don’t tell me you fell off your bike again. I know you walk to and from school.”

Dean just shrugs again, looking away and down the hallway. Anna is his favorite teacher, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to tell her about his life.

“Dean,” says Anna, pain filling her voice, “we can help. If you tell us what’s wrong, we can help you with whoever’s hurting you – don’t try and deny it Dean. Every day you come here covered in bruises and scratches, you barely ever speak, and you don’t let anybody get near you. I know it can seem like you’re all alone, but-”

The bell rings just in time to save Dean and he runs back into the class and scoops up his books before taking off past the started and concerned teacher. Dean can’t have help. Asking for help would just lead to pain – for him and everyone around him. So he doesn’t. He ignores and denies his teachers’ concerns and he keeps well away from any potential friends. Because if Dean would have one wish in this entire fucked up universe, it would be that no one else ever got hurt because of him.

\---

Dean is waiting outside Sam’s classroom like he always is, and when the floppy-haired boy runs out with his classmate he immediately goes to Dean, running on unsteady toddler legs and jumping into Dean’s waiting arms. Dean scoops him up like a pro, ignoring his bruised and possibly broken ribs. Sammy squeals delightedly and Dean knows he’s succeeded in his job of making Sammy forget about the nightmares of the previous day.

“Dean!” squeals Sammy. “Mr. Gabriel said he liked my drawing!” announced the six-year-old proudly.

“Did he now?” asks Dean, smiling weakly, his voice rough from his damaged throat and un-use. “Well how could he not, as talented as you are. What did you draw?” he asks as they move down the hallway and out of the school. Dean can't help it as his eyes are drawn towards the many parents picking up their kids, much like Dean is now. John has never once picked up Sam from school, and only Dean a few times when he was younger. Thinking on it, Dean is much more of a parent to Sam than John ever was, yet the title still goes to the abusive drunk. Dean shrugs the thought away. It’s not like it matters so long as John never touches Sam.

“I drew us,” says Sam proudly. “Mr. Gabriel said to draw our families and I drew you walking me home from school.”

Dean only sets Sam own when he ribs absolutely cannot take it anymore and though the younger boy doesn’t say anything he doesn’t complain like he normally would, just takes Dean’s hand and continues babbling on. “Mr. Gabriel is _awesome_ ,” says Sam, and Dean honest to god smiles at his word choice. It feels a little weird on his lips if he’s being honest. “He lets us draw while he teaches us and he’s really good at teaching too! Plus he always lets us talk to him about stuff.”

Dean’s walk stutters but he keeps going like nothing’s wrong. “What do you talk to him about?” asks Dean carefully, feigning vague interest – not that a fucking six-year-old could really tell, he berated himself. Whatever.

“I talk about you to him a lot,” said Sam, “and how you’re great and you take me places and buy me things – and how you always, always, always walk me home from school!”

Sam smiled toothily up at Dean and Dean’s returning smile wasn’t quite as fake as the one he gave everyone most days, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s great, Sammy,” he said. “I’m glad you’re liking your new teacher. He sounds cool.”

Dean tunes out Sam for the remainder of the walk home, his mind drifting to whether or not he should tell Sam to stop talking to his teacher. If he just compliments Dean and doesn’t say anything about their dad, it’ll be fine, right? Or will the teacher start to wonder why Sam never mentions his parents? Why Dean is always doing the parent stuff in Sam’s stories?

They round that oh so familiar bend in the road and Dean sees his little masked house, waiting in the middle of the road, unsuspecting. The Impala is gone which means – thankfully – Dean is going to have a few weeks to a month to heal from John’s last beating. But it also means that they’re not gonna have much money for a while.

Dean sighs, feeling like once again all the weight in the world has been placed on his shoulders. He’s not sure if he’s going to be able to scrounge up enough money to feed Sam while john’s away, or if he’s going to need to steal again. Or, worst case scenario, if he’s going to have to resort to… other methods of getting money. It wouldn’t be the first time.

With a sigh, Dean pushes open the door to his house and carries Sam over the broken glass still littering the floor. He puts Sam in his room before going back downstairs and getting out the vacuum. With all the thoughts bouncing around his head, Dean knows it’s gonna be a long night.


	3. Disturbing

Gabriel walked into his house, closing the door before leaning back against it with a heavy sigh. He closed his eyes and mulled over the events of the day before pushing away and walking down the little hallway into the living room.

Castiel was playing _Clash of Clans_ on the couch and Gabriel ruffled his hair as he walked behind him. “Hey Cassie,” he greeted, “where’s Anna?”

“Kitchen!” Anna called from down the hall.

"What she said,” finished Castiel distractedly, focused on the game.

Gabriel chuckled at his brother and mussed up his hair further just to prove he could.

The second he entered their kitchen, Gabriel could tell something was off with Anna. He gingerly sat down at one of the island stools and watched her ass she bustled about – stress cooking, she called it. “Rough day?” he asked after a moment, weariness creeping into his own voice.

Anna turned and sagged against the counter, scrubbing her face with her hand. “Yeah,” she said, exhaustion coloring her frame. “Gabriel, I think one of my students is being abused. But he won’t admit to it.”

Gabriel furrowed his brows. “What makes you say that?” he asked carefully.

Anna sighed and turned around, stirring the sauce she was cooking. “He’s always covered in bruises, but he refuses to tell me where they came form,” she said. “I don’t think it’s a bullying problem because he seems to have the new ones even in homeroom, but it could be. Today he came in and he could barely move without wincing. He didn’t say a word all day either, and I think it’s got something to do with the ring of bruises around his throat. It’s horrible, Gabriel, because something is obviously wrong but he will not tell me what.”

Gabriel just shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “God that’s – that’s horrible,” he said finally. “Are you going to tell anyone?”

Anna shrugged helplessly. “I can't,” she said. “Dean won’t talk and maybe the bruises would be enough to launch an investigation, but I have no idea who’s hurting him. Probably his dad or mom, but I can't be sure.”

“There’s a kid in my class as well,” Gabriel revealed. “Something’s just… off about him. He never talks about his parents, and he never _stops_ talking about his brother. Total hero worship and the kid’s only six. And the things he says – he’s always talking about how his brother takes care of him, cooks for him, walks him to and from school, cleans him, feeds him. I can't see much room for any parents doing anything.”

Anna sat down next to Gabriel and laid her head on his shoulder. “Child neglect is just as bad as abuse,” she said wisely.

“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” said Gabriel, bending over and fishing a brightly colored piece of blue construction paper from hi bag. “But then he drew this,” he handed the paper over to Anna. It was a crayon drawing showing Sam, Gabriel’s student, with whom Sam had told him was his older brother. It would have been cute if there weren’t angry purple crayon lines spattered on his brother’s skin.

“Oh my,” says Anna, eyes wide. “That’s – that’s disturbing.”

Gabriel scrubbed a hand over his face. “I asked him why he looked like that and he said Daddy drank the bad smelling stuff and Dean made him go upstairs.”

Anna paled considerably. “Dean?” she asked. Gabriel warily nodded. “Dean _Winchester_?”

Gabriel blinked. “Well, yeah,” he said. “Do you teach the kid?”

Anna stood up quickly and started pacing the room. “He’s the kid that keeps showing up to school hurt,” she explained. “Gabriel, I can't take this! It’s making me feel useless. It’s our job to protect these kids and there is obviously abuse happening right under our noses – for who knows how long!”

“We don’t have any proof, Anna,” Gabriel pointed out, dropping his head into his hands. “For all we know, Dean’s getting ruffed up behind the school by seniors and their parents work a lot to put their kids through college. There are a thousand explanations.”

“But you and I both know there’s really only one,” snapped Anna. “Tell me Sam isn’t acting like Cassie used to act, tell me that it doesn’t seem like Dean is his real dad. And what about Dean? All I know is that he hates being touched, is usually limping around, and there is hardly ever a time he doesn’t have bruises on his face.”

Gabriel sighed. “I want to help, Anna, you know I do,” he said, standing up and placing his hands on her shoulders, looking her dead in the eyes. “But as of now, we don’t have any proof to support our accusations. Who knows what kind of problems we would cause if we were wrong. Dean is obviously being hurt by someone, but maybe the answer isn’t to go barreling right in.”

“Hey guys,” said Cas, and both older siblings whipped around to see him awkwardly standing in the entrance to the kitchen. “Is everything okay?” he asked worriedly.

Anna sighed but nodded, smiling weakly at her youngest brother. “Everything’s fine, Cassie,” she assured. “We’re just worried about some of our students.”

“Oh,” said Cas, brows furrowing. “Can I help?” he asked suddenly.

“Um,” Anna exchanged a look with Gabriel.

“Do you know Dean Winchester?” asked Gabriel after a moment, and they all sat down at the kitchen island.

Cas nodded instantly. “Yeah, he’s sort of my friend,” he said. “Why? Is he in trouble? And Sam?”

Gabriel looked surprised. “You’re friends with him?” he asked, momentarily brought away from the problem at hand. “I didn’t know you had any friends other than Kevin, Charlie Jo, and Samandriel.”

Castiel shrugged. “We’re not _really_ friends,” he said. “Remember a few months ago when I did that children’s reading at the library? He brought Sam to it and ever sense we’ve been hanging out at the library on the weekends, not talking a whole lot but doing homework together and sharing thoughts on books.” Castiel shrugged again. “Is he – is he okay?” he asked quietly.

“You tell us,” said Gabriel solemnly, looking at Cas firmly.

Cas shifted uncomfortably under his brother’s heavy look. “I don’t know – I guess… sometimes it seems like Dean comes out to – get Sammy away from something? It’s difficult to explain…. He doesn’t like to be touched – ever. I asked him about it once, and he said he had social anxiety. I didn’t push after that. I'm pretty sure the… bruises and stuff come from bullies.”

“Oh,” said Anna, looking down. “Thanks Cassie, we’re probably just overreacting. You can go back to your game.” Anna’s smile is fake and they all know it. Castiel hovers in the door for a moment before leaving, looking worried.

“What do you think?” asks Gabriel when they’re both sure Castiel is gone.

Anna shrugs helplessly. “Social anxiety could explain a lot of it,” she hedges. “Bullying could also. I just don’t know, Gabriel.”

They stood in silence for a moment before Gabriel spoke. “I don’t think we should do anything for now,” he says finally. “Well, maybe start gathering proof, I guess, so that if something is happening people will believe us and we can get these kids help. If not, then no harm no foul.”

Anna nodded, albeit a little miserably. “I don’t think there’s anything else we can do.”

\---

Castiel hesitated in the doorway, wondering if he should try and listen into their conversation. He decided not to, figuring that it wasn’t his place. He and Dean weren’t so much friend as people who sat next to each other in the library a few times a week. From an outside view, Cas was better friends with Sam than Dean. Still, he worried about the guy.

With a shrug Cas walks away from the kitchen and plops down on the couch, resuming his game. If something is wrong, Anna and Gabriel will figure it out and deal with it. And if Cas silently decides to try and engage Dean that weekend, well, that’s his business.


	4. Silence

Dean fell into the hard chair with a sigh of relief. He leaned back and closed his eyes. This is why he loved the library. The silence. The quiet. It was so still, so delicate. The tranquility could be broken by a single cough, a single chair squealing, a book placed too heavily on a shelf. But for now, it was quiet. Dean loved the quiet because of how easily it could be broken. Silence was something he could relate to.

Peace settled deep in his chest and it almost brought a smile to Dean’s lips. Quiet was so hard to find – at home there was always yelling or the sound of clinking and breaking beer bottles. His father’s snores filled the house at night and Sammy’s endless chatter filled the rest of Dean’s day. School was worse in some ways. There wasn’t any screaming or yelling, but there was several hundred kids bustling about a hallway, all chattering and moving and sometimes the noise overwhelmed Dean and he felt lost, completely lost and unable to say anything in the midst of a thousand words not directed at him piercing his skin like stones.

The library wasn’t like that. The noises were small, and only had Dean remember he wasn’t alone. It was nice there, nice and quiet.

“Hi Dean.”

It felt almost like a physical shattering of air as the two simple words broke the silence. In his mind, Dean mourned the murdered quiet.

Dean pried open his eyes and saw Cas watching him with a bemused smile. “Whatcha doing?” he asks, dropping into the seat next to Dean.

Dean shrugs and pulls his stack of schoolbooks closer to him. “Napping,” he says quietly.

Cas bobs his head and looks around. “Where’s Sam?” he asks.

Dean blinks heavily to dissuade the unnecessary depression that tries to engulf him with the question. Of course Cas isn’t here for him – why would he be? “He’s at one of those reading things,” Dean answers softly, hoping not to disturb the peace of others in the large room. “He should be back soon.” _If you wanna stick around_. He leaves the last words unspoken, too hopeful, to naïve to voice.

“Okay,” says Cas, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the table as he opens the book he picked up. Dean thinks he looks comfortable, and he’d like to try putting his feet up as well, but he won’t, because if he’s kicked out of the library he really won’t have any where to go.

"What are you doing?” asks Cas after a couple minutes spent in slightly more strained but still blissful silence.

“Science homework,” Dean answers softly, biting the tip of his pencil before scribbling down an answer. When he looks up, Cas is staring at him. The blue-eyed boy quickly looks down at the textbook.

“You’re in AP, right?” he asks.

Dean nods absently, running his fingers through his hair as he leans forward to read the tiny print on the page. “For science, English, and math,” Dean clarifies.

Cas whistles and smiles. “Damn, you’re pretty smart, aren’t you,” he says, not making it a question but letting admiration enter his voice.

Dean peaks up and him and is surprised to find warmth shining in Cas’ eyes. “Not really,” he says quickly, looking back down at the page and answering the last question he has to before pushing the book away. “You’re in all those classes plus AP language and history.”

Cas shrugs. “Just ‘cause I'm in more AP classes doesn’t mean you aren’t smart,” he challenged.

“I’m not,” says Dean quickly, hunching over in his seat to both hide from Cas and read the problems on his math worksheet.

“Yeah, you kind of are,” laughs Cas nervously. Dean is fairly sure this is the longest conversation he’s had with someone outside his family since he was four. He wonders how everybody else does it. Probably just him being weak again.

Dean doesn’t answer and this time the silence is heavy between them, weighing down Dean’s already slumped shoulders.

“You are smart you know,” says Castiel after a minute, his eyes filled with honesty and a smidgen of concern.

Dean looks up to deny or reflect, but the look in Cas’ eyes stops him and unintended words spilling unbidden from his lips. “I'm about to fail my classes.” His jaw snaps shut with an audible click and he lowers his head to his paper. He hadn’t meant to say that. He didn’t _want_ to say that, very much wanted to take it back.

“Oh,” said Cas, ducking his head as well. “Um… do you need a tutor or something? Cause I can help you if you want…” he offered.

Dean stared at him, trying to focus on the cerulean eyes. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, completely stunned by the honest giving of aid. “I – you don’t have to,” Dean quickly rushed to assure, feeling that Cas must have thought Dean was backing him into a hold. Cas was unbearably polite, after all. That’s probably what it was. "I'm fine."

Cas laughed awkwardly and scratched the back of his neck. Dean forcefully kept his gaze away from the ebony skin revealed as his t-shirt pulled up. “I want to,” he said firmly. “Besides, it’s not like I’d be changing my schedule or anything. We do this every weekend,” he said, gesturing around him at the library. “This would just make it official.”

Dean considers it for a moment. “Why not,” he says softly, silently screaming at himself, asking what he thinks he’s doing. He ignores the voice because even if AP classes draw unwanted attention, a sudden drop in grades resulting in moving classes would draw more eyes to him, and in a worse way. “I’ll do my homework here and if I have a question I’ll ask you?” he hedges.

Castiel beams and nods. “Cool,” he says happily. “So Sundays every week, like usual?”

Dean nods with an added shrug. They've already been doing this for months, but somehow this seems important. Different. “Or Saturdays,” he said. “Me and Sam come here most days. Sam loves books, I mean, he wouldn’t be Sam if he didn’t,” he adds, laughing awkwardly, hoping to diminish any suspicion that might arise with that slipped statement.

As if his little brother is fucking Beetlejuice Sam comes skipping around the corner of a bookshelf. “Cas!” he exclaims excitedly, running forward and tugging on the boy’s over coat.

Cas’ beam brightens and the two of them instantly engage in a conversation about the book Sam’s reading. Dean strangle his jealousy because he _will not_ be jealous of a six year old, especially when Sam looks happy.

Sam and Cas chatter excitedly for a while, receiving a few warning glances from the librarian but no further consequences. Dean steadily powers through his homework with little enough trouble to justify not asking Cas about it.

At six Dean looks over to Cas and Sam. Sam’s sitting on the other boy’s lap and Cas is helping him read a book – one of Sam’s child chapter books. Sam’s pretty young, but he’d taken to reading like a fish to water.

Dean sighs and stands up. “Hey Sammy, we gotta go,” he says apologetically. “Thanks for helping him Cas,” he adds, quiet enough that Sam doesn’t hear.

“Awe, Dean, can't we stay for just a little longer?” begs Sam, eyes watering and lip thrusting out.

“Sorry bud, but you need dinner,” he says.

“But Dean,” whines Sam.

Cas, thankfully, steps in. “Sorry Sam, but I have to go to,” he says, lifting the kid of his lap and into his brother’s arms. Dean shoots him a grateful look and carries Sam out of the library.

“See you around, Dean!” Cas calls. “Bye Sam!”

The librarian quickly shushes him and Dean chuckles. Despite Sam’s complaints he’s exhausted and falls asleep on the car ride back to their house. Dean smiles warmly at his little brother curled up adorably in the back seat.

The house is dark when Dean pulls up, which is generally a good sign. He unbuckles Sam an pulls the sleeping child into his arms gently, closing the door as quietly as he can.

The house is anything but quiet when Dean walks in though. John’s sitting on the couch, the television blaring as he shouts obscenities at whatever game show is on. Dean sighs. There never  is any quiet in this house.

Sam startles awake in his brother’s arms, but has since learnt to keep quiet when their father is in the picture. He remains silent as Dean carries him up the stairs and tucks him into bed for an evening nap. Dean is about to leave the room to make Sam’s dinner when his brother calls out to him.

“Brady said his daddy never yells,” says Sam. “Why does John yell?” Sam’s eyes are big and wide and brimming with tears when Dean turns to face him.

Dean moves forward and crouches next to the bed. “John,” Dean starts sorrowfully, “isn’t like other dads, okay? Daddies aren’t supposed to yell, or hit, or drink, but some do. That makes them bad daddies, but they have their reasons. John is – John has a boo boo, okay? But it can't be fixed with a band aid, so he takes medicine to numb it, but the medicine makes him bad.”

“Is that the smelly drink?” asks Sam, picking at his sheets.

Dean nods. “The smelly drink makes John angry,” Dean confirms.

Sam throws his arms around Dean’s neck. “I like you better anyway,” he says into Dean’s shirt.

Dean’s large arms wrap around the shaking form of his little brother and he holds him close. “I like you better too,” he says softly into the silence.

He knows, somewhere deep in his heart, that living in silence isn’t the same thing as taking comfort in it. But he’s afraid if he voices – any of it, that silence will break. And who knows what would happen then?


	5. Big

Sammy curled around his big brother, mumbling quietly into his neck. Dean was warm. Dean was safety. Dean meant no smelly drink and love and warm hugs and cuddles. Sammy knew this because those were the things Dean had proven to him. Sam was never hurt around Dean, never had an un-bandaged scraped knee for more than a minute when Dean was there to take care of it. Dean was home.

Sam yawned tiredly and gripped his home even tighter. Dean got hurt a lot, and no one seemed to take care of him. That didn’t seem fair, but what could Sammy do? Not much, when he was so little.

“Come on, Sammy,” said Dean, picking Sam up and rolling out of his little racecar bed. “Let’s go get you ready for school.”

Sammy nodded into the crook of Dean’s neck. He liked school. It was fun and he learned stuff. Mr. Gabriel was nice to. Dean would call him nosy but Sammy didn’t mind. Sammy let Dean brush his teeth and dress him, still half-asleep.

“Okay Sammy, I gotta go get myself ready, okay?” said Dean once Sam was dressed in small jeans and a green t-shirt. “Wait here and I’ll get you breakfast.”

Dean left and Sammy curled up on his bed. Dean was back quickly, handing Sammy a bowl of cereal. Dean looked upset. Sammy took the bowl and reached up, laying his small hand on Dean’s cheek. “What’s wrong, Dean?” he asked.

Dean smiled. It looked funny though. “Nothing, Sammy, just eat your cereal, okay?” Sammy nodded and ate the Lucky Charms Dean had offered him. Dean walked around Sam’s room, packing his miniature-sized backpack with everything he needed for school. He left the room to get his own bag and came back quickly.

“Ready Sammy?” asked Dean holding out his hand for the bowl. Sammy hadn’t it to him and Dean left. He was back in a minute, his hand now extended for Sam’s.

“Uh huh,” said Sam, jumping off his bed and taking Dean’s hand. Dean picked him up and walked quietly until they were out of the house where he put Sam down. Sam didn’t ask questions. When he did he rarely got an answer, and he sort of knew anyways. He could see John passed out on the couch, surrounded by the smelly drink bottles. Sammy clung tighter to his brother’s hand. “I love you Dean,” said Sammy after they turned the corner from their home.

Dean looked down at him in surprise but squeezed his hand tighter and picked him up, hugging him close to his chest and stopping. Sam wrapped his hands around his brother’s neck. “I love you too, Sammy,” said Dean, pressing a kiss to Sam’s floppy hair. “So much. It’s going to be okay, Sammy.”

Sammy nodded, feeling tears building in his eyes that only made him clutch tighter to Dean. To safety. To warmth. To _home_. Sammy knew not everybody got to be as lucky as him to have a brother like Dean. Brady said he was always fighting with his brother. Dean and Sammy never fought.

Dean started walking again, not letting Sam down as they went. Sammy kept his head tucked in Dean’s shoulder.

As the sound of other children filtered into Sam’s awareness he found himself wishing for the hundredth time that the walk to school was longer. That walks were nice, just him and Dean, no John, no toys being forced to share, just nice fresh air and his big brother. Sam liked school, but Dean was never there for it, and that made Sam sad.

As they approached the steps of Sam’s lower school building Dean started to set Sam down, but the younger boy just clutched him tighter, not wanting to let go for a second. He knew that Dean couldn’t come to class with him, but he was going to hold on as long as he could.

Dean hesitated in the doorway to the room for a moment before he walked in, setting Sam down in his normal seat. Sam wasn’t sure how Dean knew his seat, but he was happy with the familiarity. Dean crouched down next to him.

“You okay, bud?” he asked softly, brushing Sam’s hair out of his face.

Sam pouted but nodded, reaching out and looping his arms around Dean’s neck. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled.

“Why?” asked Dean, not hesitating to hug Sam back.

Sam frowned. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “You always say it.”

Dean stiffened but – thank god – didn’t pull away. “Sammy, if there’s one thing I want you to know, it’s not to take lessons from me,” he said oh so softly. Sam almost didn’t hear it, and he definitely didn’t understand it.

“What?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “Never mind,” he said. “Just don't apologize for things that aren’t your fault, and don’t apologize for things you haven't done. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Sam, tightening his grip.

“Is everything okay?”

Dean jerked back quickly, almost knocking Sam to the ground – but Dean would never let him fall and suddenly he was in Dean’s arms, giggling. “Hi Mr. Gabriel,” he said, waving at his upside down teacher with a grin.

“Hi Sam,” said Gabriel with a befuddled smile. “Is this Dean?”

“Good morning,” said Dean uncomfortably, setting Sam back in his chair and standing up, not letting go of Sam’s hand as he did. “Sorry, should I go?” he asked Sam’s teacher.

“No, it’s fine, class doesn’t start for another ten minutes,” said Gabriel. “What’s going on?”

Dean shrugged. “Sammy just had a hard night,” he said vaguely.

Gabriel looked at his student in concern. Gabriel was a little bigger than Dean, but even though Sam liked him tons he didn’t have the same presence his brother had, the same sense of safety.

“Are you okay, Sammy?” asked Gabriel, bending down to eye-level with the six-year-old.

Sam frowned and tightened his grip on Dean’s shirt. “Sam,” he corrected. “Only Dean can call me Sammy.” Dean blushed but Sam didn’t know why. Gabriel just smiled brightly and nodded.

“Okay _Sam_ , are you okay?” he asked, smiling softly now.

Sam nodded, his hand tight in Dean’s. “I'm fine,” he said.

“I need to get to class,” said Dean, pressing a kiss to Sammy’s cheek before slowly untangling their fingers. “See you in a few hours, Sammy,” he said before leaving the room.

“So that’d your big brother?” asked Gabriel, form his position next to Sam’s desk. “He’s nice.”

“Dean’s the best,” agreed Sam.

“What about your dad? Is he good too?”

Sam paused. He knew Dean had told him something about not telling people about John, but he wasn’t sure what it was he wasn’t supposed to tell. That he was sick? That he wasn’t nice? That he drank the smelly stuff?

“Dean is better than John,” said Sam firmly after a moment.

Gabriel looked surprised. “Is John your dad?” he asked, confused.

Sam nodded. “Dean says John doesn’t know how to be a dad though,” he admitted. “And that he’s sick.” There, that wasn’t bad. Sam got sick all the time and it was never a secret.

Gabriel’s brows furrowed. “Sick? How’s he sick, Sam?” he asked.

“Dean says John had a boo-boo but Band Aids don’t help,” said Sam, relaying his older brother’s message from the night before.

“What kind of boo-boo?” asked Gabriel.

Sam shrugged and picked at a spot on his small desk. “I don’t know,” he said. “Dean just says he isn’t like other daddies and not to touch his medicine.”

“Medicine?” asked Gabriel, looking a little sad now. It _was_ possible he’d misread the entire situation and the poor Winchesters father might be absent do to an illness.

Sam wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, the smelly drink in the bottles,” he said. “Dean says I can't touch it, but I wouldn’t anyway ‘cause it makes John angry and is stinky.”

Gabriel pulls back slightly, eyes wide and fixed on Sam. “I – hey, Sam, can you bring Dean back in here before you guys leave for home?” he asks, looking towards the clock. He only has a minute before class starts.

Sam’s eyes widen. “Am I trouble? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he says, lip wobbling. “I won’t do it again.”

Gabriel isn’t sure what Sam is apologizing for and he gets the idea Sam doesn’t really know either. “You’re not in trouble Sam, it’s okay,” he assures. “I just want to talk to Dean. Can you help me with that? I might be able to help him with your – with John’s, uh, boo-boo.”

Sam pauses before nodding. “Okay," he says looking down. “Thank you.”

Gabriel stands up slowly and looks down at the kid, his sister’s words ringing in his ears. ‘ _Tell me Sam isn’t acting like Cassie used to act!_ ’ And now that it’s been pointed out to him, that’s exactly how Sam acts. He latches onto Dean whenever he’s around, enjoys school with an unusual fever, shies away from anything loud or violent, and is always apologizing for things out of his control. It’s how someone who’s witnessed domestic abuse, especially at an age when they don’t really understand it, acts.

The bell rings and the last few toddlers happily skip into the room. Gabriel goes back to his desk and thinks for a moment, looking down at his plan with unease. He quickly looks up and smiles at the expectant six and seven year olds. “Okay kids, today we’re going to be coloring again. Something special.”


	6. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half-chapterish. It's short. I'm going to - hopefully - be updating a lot this week, because I won't be able to for the last week or June and the first two weeks of July and I want to get some stuff done.

Gabriel paced nervously in his classroom, his hands running through his hair so many times that the golden brown tufts stood on end. He had a degree in child psychology, he was trusted by the school to teach his class as he saw fit, and he did. His students were well behaved and well adjusted, and Gabriel was damn proud of that. But that didn’t stop the picture on his desk from scaring the crap out of him.

He’d asked his student to draw their worst nightmare as part of a therapeutic process, and then had them write a few sentences about why they were scared of it and how they handled the fear. Most of the kids had drawn things like snakes and bears and lions and sharks. A few had drawn robots and monsters. One girl had drawn what she called a vamptupus (octopus plus vampire and Gabriel willingly admitted it was terrifying) and another boy had drawn a unicorn – with a rainbow tail no less. There were a few clowns. All in all, it wasn’t particularly disturbing stuff.

Then came little Sammy Winchester’s drawing.

He’d handed it in with shaky hands before going back to his desk to write how he got over it. He’d drawn the front room to what Gabriel assumed was his living room. Brown and green bottles were scattered around the room like they belonged there, no stranger than a potted plant. Who Gabriel assumed was Sam himself crouched on the top step, barely making the drawing, azure blue tears dripping down his face. At the bottom lay a prone figure, twisted either from pain or a toddler’s lack of drawing skill, Gabriel couldn’t tell. The figure was big, but the one looming above him was giant, a monster himself with fangs and claws, his mouth open and gaping, a swirl of black crayon dribbling down his throat. The figure on the floor looked at it with wide colored pencil green eyes, a large red marker gash across his forward, a line dribbling from his loose mouth, all of it collecting in a pool under him.

The artistic talent was undeniable.

So was the horror.

Children’s worst fears… weren’t supposed to look like that. At worst they looked like the monster under the bed, or the troll in their closet. At worst they were a vamptupus with wicked teeth. They weren’t their older brother bleeding out on the floor of their house underneath the shadow of a monster and surrounded by beer bottles while they cried on the top step and watched, completely helpless in a way children weren’t supposed to understand they were.

Gabriel shakily picked up the sheet that Sam had written his sentences on. _I'm scared that he’s gonna get Dean and he’s not gonna wake up. I get over the fear when Dean tucks me in at night or lets me sleep with him and whispers how safe I am._

It’s not right. It’s not cute. It’s horrifying.

“Gabriel, you said you wanted to see me?” asks Anna, walking into the room. She stops when she sees her brother’s frayed state. She recovered quickly, surging forward and wrapping her twin in a hug. “Hey, what’s wrong?” she asked gently.

Gabriel gestured with a shaky hand to the drawing on his desk. Ana swiftly picked it up and immediately paled, her eyes flying to Gabriel’s before darting back to the construction paper drawing and sucking in a quick breath between her teeth.

“Is this from Sam?” she asks after a silent moment. Gabriel nods, and he wonders if he’s felt so close to tears since they moved to their Uncle Balthazar’s house and yelling parents and breaking dishes became a thing of the past, since Cas blossomed and got friends because he stopped being worried about friends asking to come home and him being scared his parents would yell at him while they were there. His PhD student subconscious is telling him that Sam and Dean’s situation is reminding him of being a scared child and not knowing what to do. Except their parents weren’t physically abusive as it’s becoming more and more apparent that Sam and Dean are. Somewhere in him, he wants to believe that Dean isn’t being abused, that the nightmare drawn in crayon and marker on the page before him is just that – a nightmare. Nothing more. But he knows it’s not true.

“Dean walked him in this morning. Sam told me Dean had told him their father was sick, and that he couldn’t touch his medicine, the ‘smelly drink’ Sam called it,” he said, voice tight.

Anna’s usually pale complexion was white as a sheet. “We need to tell somebody,” she pushed out in a rush. “We can't ignore this, we can't deny this anymore, Gabe. We can't. Dean is being hurt.”

Gabriel just nodded miserably. “I’m probably going to meet up with him after school today, but it’s not official. I don’t think he’d like you to be there,” he adds in before Anna can suggest it.

His sister glares at him but nods. “Okay. See what you can get him to tell you. A toddler’s drawing isn’t exactly proof.”

“I know,” said Gabriel. Anna left with a quick kiss to his cheek and Gabriel started to mentally prepare himself to meet with Dean.


	7. Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, but unfortunately do to summer conflicts I won't be posting again until late July/early August. Sorry! This chapter is pretty long though, so I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcome.

Dean’s been dutifully keeping his head down since Anna called him out of class a week ago. It doesn’t hurt that John hasn’t been around much and that when he is he’s at the point of intoxication where he passes out or his swings miss by a few feet, so there’s fewer bruises to hide. With his voice back Dean tells Anna that he got into a fight with a kid from a different school and it got out of hand. She doesn’t quiet believe him he knows, but when he brings in the perfectly forged not from ‘his dad’ saying that the situation was handled and Dean had been to see a doctor, she can't do much more except give him sad, doe-eyed looks.

It was annoying enough that had all of his other classes not been as patronizing and infuriating as they were, English would have lost it’s number one spot in Dean’s head. But at least Anna is nice and not and idiot, and Dean’s doing pretty good in the class, good enough that it’s the one class he has no fear of dropping from AP levels. Not that Dean has any idea how he got there in the first place.

Cas is in this class actually, and while for the first few months of the year he sat with his friends, he’s taken to sitting next to Dean in the three classes they share. Which Dean doesn’t find himself minding as much as he thought he would. Which is odd. But he brushes it off because someone sitting next to him in a few classes doesn’t matter and much as Dean’s making it out to.

He has English last period today and Cas is sitting next to him. Dean keeps glancing at the clock and tapping his fingers on his desk. He’s eager to see Sam and tae him home – or to the park or library. Yeah, he’ll take Sam to the library and read some of his favorite books to him. Dean can do that, and Sam’ll definitely like it. As much as Dean appreciates Cas reading with Sam and helping him out, Dean wishes he had enough time to do his homework at, well, home, so he could be the one making Sam giggle and laugh. It’s not that he’s jealous exactly – just melancholy and missing of the brother he spends every spare second with.

“For the next class project you will all be choosing one book off of a list I have provided,” she announced. “There will be two people per book but the project is individual. You have to read the book and find five quotations that you think are important. One of them has to be about the plot, the other has to be about character development, the third is something meaningful to you, the fourth is what the book it trying to say, and the fifth is beautiful language. Using these quotes you will then write a five page essay on the book.” Anna handed down the rubric and the list of books with a small summary next to it. “Pick your top three, number them. Do not pick books you’ve read before.” Dean taps his pen on the table before picking _The Giver_ , _Bridge to Terabithia,_ and _Counting By Sevens_. He’s of course heard of the first two, but the last one is unknown to him, but it looks good.

“What did you choose?” asks Cas, leaning over and looking at his paper. Dean doesn’t try to hide it but he shifts uncomfortably. “Seriously? You’ve never read _The Giver_?” Dean shakes his head. “Huh. Well it’s really good. I’ve never read Bride To Terabithia or the last one,” he says.

Dean nodded but didn’t respond, hoping Cas would take the hint and leave him alone. But Cas was not the most social cue attuned person and he missed the memo. “I think the Giver is a pretty fantastic book, written really well with great themes, but the ending is confusing at best. The movie was pretty spectacular though, although the ending was dubious. Less confusing but silly and unbelievable.”

Dean only half listened to Castiel talk, his eyes focused on the clock as they counted down. It was Monday afternoon and this was his last class. Hopefully John would be gone when they got home – he hadn’t taken a trip in a few weeks – and they could peacefully watch TV and Dean could cook whatever Sam wanted for dinner. If not, well, they’d either hide out in one of their rooms until John called for food or they’d head off to the library and wait John out, only returning home when he was probably passed out. With the way Anna had been watching him recently Dean really couldn’t afford any more – visible – bruises.

Cas continued on babbling even as Dean’s mood worsened and he went from half listening to studiously ignoring, not that Castiel seemed to know or care with the way he kept right on. Dean sighed in relief when the bell finally rang and he darted out of his seat, breaking Cas off mid-sentence. He might feel guilty later, but for the time being Dean hasn’t seen Sam all day and the poor kid had a rough night.

Dean quickly got all his homework together before leaving the high school building and heading for the lower school. Dean waited in the hallway out side of Sam’s classroom for his little brother to come out. A few toddlers and young children skipped out happily, a few even shooting Dean toothy grins. Sam was a popular kid, his peers liked him, and even though it bothered Dean Sam enjoyed talking about him and was proud of his brother. Because of this, a few of the young students thought of Dean as a ‘cool grownup’ and Dean could even name a couple. He tries to smile back and thankfully the five year olds haven't learned to tell a real smile from a fake one yet. A few of the six year olds eyed him dubiously though.

Sam came out to after everyone else had left, hand in hand with the teacher from earlier.

“Dean!” he said, letting go of the teacher’s hand and running up to his brother. He jumped up, trusting Dean to catch him and the older sibling did, easily swinging him into the air and onto his him. Sam laughed happily and kissed Dean’s cheek.

“Oomph,” said Dean, staggering slightly under the weight. “You gotta stop doing that, kid. You’re getting too heavy.”

Sam laughed and shook his head, burying his face in Dean’s neck. “You’ll always catch me,” he said confidently, like there was no reason on earth his brother wouldn’t catch him. It melted Dean’s heart.

“Yup,” said Dean. “Let’s go home.”

“Excuse me,” said the teacher who’d been watching them from his classroom door with a warm smile. He stepped forward and said, “If it wouldn’t be that much trouble for you, Dean, I’d like to speak with you for a minute.”

Dean froze. That could mean a lot of things. “Is Sam okay?” he asked, going for the most worrisome. He turned to his brother. “Are you okay?”

Sam bobbed his head as Gabriel rushed to assure. “Sam’s fine, top of the class, plenty or friends. You – or your parents – don’t have anything to worry about.”

Dean swallowed thickly. He heard the hastily added and suggestive addition in the sentence, and it meant that most likely, something had occurred to clue Gabriel in on… something. Something in the ‘never talk about it, Sammy’ category.

“Okay,” he said after a moment. “What do you want to talk about?” He held Sam closer to his chest and looked steadily at Gabriel as though to remind him that there was a child present, daring him to say anything in front of Sam.

Gabriel didn’t take the bait. “Sam, why don’t you wait in the hallway while I talk with you brother, okay?” said the teacher.

Sam bit his lip. “Is Dean in trouble?” he asked.

Dean kissed the top of his hair and set him down, hoping to hide how his hands were shaking. “Sammy, just wait here okay?” he said, not seeing a way to get out of the situation.

Sam nodded obediently and Dean ruffled his hair before following Gabriel into the room. The teacher sat in a chair behind his desk in the back of the room and Dean shakily sat down in the seat in front of the desk.

Gabriel dug around in his desk before pulling out two pieces of construction paper. Dean was confused for a moment until he recognized Sam’s drawing style. Dean’s throat went dry. Wasn’t it so cliché that the thing that would reveal his long held secret of domestic abuse would be revealed by a child’s drawing. Gabriel set the first picture down and Dean relaxed slightly. It was just a drawing of Dean walking Sam home from school. But then Gabriel traced Dean’s jaw and throat.

“Why the bruises?” he asked quietly.

Dean stared at the drawing, at the now completely obvious abuse Sam had drawn on Dean. Was that what his brother thought of him? Probably. Dean shoved that aside and tried to think up an excuse better than ‘I fell down the stairs.’ “I got attacked by our neighbors dog,” he said after a second. “Their new dog, nasty thing.” Dean stopped before he spilled too many fake details.

Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. “And a dog gave you bruises on your neck?” he asked dubiously.

Dean was partially distracted by the gloriously elevated eyebrow, but he shook himself and focused. “Uh, yeah. I went out to get the newspaper and it jumped me and knocked me into the fence.” Dean ran a hand over his neck. “Hurt like a bitch. You can ask Ms. Anna – I couldn’t talk for a day.”

Gabriel looked dubious but Dean was aware his story held up. So Gabriel just nodded and moved the first drawing away. Dean’s mouth went dry and his eyes went wide in slight terror and slight sickness.

Sam had drawn Dean passed out in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs with John looming above him. Beer bottles littered the room. The worst part though, for Dean, was Sam, crying on the stairs.

“I assume that’d you,” said Gabriel softly after a minute, tapping the image of Dean.

Dean had to think very quickly but he’d learned the school years ago. “I got into a car crash a year ago,” Dean blurted out. “Last summer, it wasn’t bad, but Sam saw me get hit and it freaked him out.” Dean shakily tapped the looming figure of John. “That – he’s the guy that hit me, I guess. Sam was the only one who saw him before the guy took off. Sam’s been having nightmares about it since – it really freaked him out.” Dean buried his face in his hands hoping to convey sibling distress.

“Oh.” Gabriel sounded surprised and Dean inwardly cheered, thinking he’d fooled him. But not quite. “What about the beer bottles.”

Dean’s head was starting to hurt from his incessant quick thinking but still he managed to say, “Probably our mom. She started drinking a lot before she left.” Lies, lies, it was all lies. John drank, not Mary, but Dean had learned a few years ago that teachers make allowances when you bring up departed parents. He left out the part where Mary left two months after Sam was born.

He was right, Gabriel did leave it alone. “I’m sorry for bringing up unwanted memories,” he said apologetically, sliding the ‘explained’ drawings into his drawer. “And I'm sorry you’ve been through so much.”

“Yeah,” Dean decided to draw a bit more attention away from himself. “Since our mom left dad’ had to work a lot more to earn enough money so usually it’s just me and Sam.”

Dean was aware that quite a few of his lies could easily be disproven with just a little digging. John wrote a few very popular books that earned him thousands, he didn’t work anymore. Mary left when Sam was a baby, he couldn’t remember her, and his neighbors didn’t have a dog. But it was the best he could do.

“I have to go, Sam’s used to having a snack after school so he’s gonna be hungry.” Dean stood up quickly and Gabriel nodded his dismissal.

“I’m sorry again for bothering you,” he said.

“Don’t be,” assured Dean earnestly. “It’s good that I know Sam’s still troubled by that stuff – so I can tell my dad.” Fuck, he’d screwed up, that sounded _so_ fake. _Nothing to do now but make a quick exit,_ he thought, doing just that. “Come on, Sam,” he murmured holding his hand out for the little boy sitting on the bench next to the classroom door. Sam jumped up happily and took Dean’s hand, immediately starting up his usual chatter.

Once they were out of sight of the school Dean stopped and bent down to Sam’s eyelevel. “Sam, you know the rules I told you about what you can and can't talk about?” he asked gently, putting a hand on the side of Sam’s face. Sam nodded solemnly. “Those apply to drawings to, okay? You can't draw John, or the smelly drink, or me when I have boo boos, got it?”

Sam nodded again. “I'm sorry Dean,” he said.

Dean sighed and wrapped his brother in a hug. “Don’t be sorry, you don’t have to be,” he assured, tucking Sam’s head under his chin. “Just don’t do it anymore, okay?”

“Okay,” said Sam, voice muffled by Dean’s shirt. “I didn’t get you in trouble, did I?" he asked, biting his lip.

Dean put on a smile and hoisted Sam up, placing him on his mostly healed shoulders and continuing the walk home. “I'm fine Sammy,” he assured. “I'm just like Batman – I could never get in trouble.”

So many lies.


	8. Mistakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M STILL ALIVE!!!
> 
> Don't worry, I'm pretty surprised about it too. Anyway, hope you enjoy the first chapter in a month. This one is kind of different in terms of perspective, but I like where it ended up.
> 
> Enjoy!

Cas had decided that he was done kidding himself. That decision had happened about three years ago and he had yet to act on it. The first step to solving a problem is admitting it to yourself, but Cas honestly had no clue what the second step was. He’d considered asking Gabriel, but he knew his older brother would just crack jokes about teen love. So that option was out the window. He knew Anna would understand and maybe even have useful insights, but no advice she could give him would make up for the inevitable conversation about safe sex, and Cas so _did not need that_. Not to say he slept around a lot, but the Internet _had_ existed when he was twelve.

Cas drummed his fingers anxiously on the stack of textbooks he thought would be helpful if Dean really did need tutoring – which Cas highly doubted. He’d been spending his weekends with Dean at the library for months and spending every spare second he could manage at school with him for years. Cas thanked his lucky stars that Dean had brought Sam to the book reading he’d done as charity work. Every couple hours Cas had spent with Dean he felt himself falling more in lo – in _like_ with the boy. Plus, Sam was pretty spectacularly awesome for a six-year-old. Probably had something to do with Dean’s teaching. Cas didn’t know anyone who spent as much time with their siblings and cared about them as much as Dean cared about Sam – except for Anna and Gabriel, but that was because of their shared rough start.

Cas’ fingers slowly stopped their paranoid tapping as his thoughts drifted to those first few years of his life that he could remember. He didn’t remember much other than a large and empty house and the image of a large man’s retreating back. And the overwhelming feeling of abandonment. That last part still struck him hard on quiet nights when he was home alone. Cas wasn’t even a hundred percent sure where it came from, just that it left him an unresponsive miserable puddle on the floor. Gabriel and Anna rarely let him stay home alone at night anymore after the first few times it happened, he always stayed with friends or invited them over.

Cas never really complained about his absent and dismissive father. He’d only been with him for a few years before Anna had finally called their uncle Balthazar and they’d gone to live with him. Balth was Cas’ greatest influence in life next to his siblings and they still lived in his old house, except Balth had moved down to Florida with his new wife, Hannah. Hannah was sweet as apple pie and Cas loved visiting them during the summers. Cas knew he had it good; complaining wasn’t something he had any use for. But when things were a little too quiet, a little too dark, a little too lonely… everyone has problems. Cas was okay with his.

“Hi Cas.”

Cas’ heart tripled its pace. His gaze immediately locked onto the source of the oh-so-familiar voice. He’d recognize that obscurely southern, subdued drawl in the middle of a sold out Madison Square Garden concert. His world narrowed down to its singular most important point at the moment. His lips burst into an energetic beam despite his wish to remain ‘cool’ the second he found those green eyes that haunted his dreams and left him hot and bothered when he looked a little too long and thought a little too hard.

“Hi Dean.”

Damn it all. Since when was his voice that ridiculously high and breathy? _Since you were stupid enough to fall in love_ , his brain sassily – and unhelpfully – suggested. _Shut up_ , he retorted, but now Dean was giving him a weird look so he must have been making funny faces. Cas quickly scrambled to cover his tracks. He awkwardly coughed into his fist and pulled his stack of books towards him. “I got some books I thought could come in handy,” he explained, voice lowered several octaves by sheer force of will.

Dean did that thing of his that made Cas’ heart ache in a good and a bad way, he gave the smallest glimpses of a smile, a dash across his lips like running mice there and then gone, leaving Cas wondering if he’d seen it or not. It made Cas feel proud to know he’d made Dean smile – even as subdued as it was – but sad that Dean’s smiles never got bigger than that. Dean gracefully slunk into the chair across from the distressed teen and opened his bag, the sound of the zipper loud in the almost empty library.

Cas glanced around the library noticing how it was much quieter than usual and finding only one answer as to why. “Where’s Sam?” he asked curiously, looking back to find Dean already buried in a science textbook. Dean glanced up and instinctually searched the room for his brother, his concern never ending, before he looked back to Cas.

“He’s at a friend’s house,” said Dean, nervously biting his lip. “It’s his first sleepover.”

Cas chuckled at the parental and frivolous worry. “He’ll be fine,” Cas assured. “Sam’s a smart kid. Plus, he’s got you.”

Dean ducked his head down into the book. “I ain’t that great,” he mumbled, eyes squinting to read the words already so close to him.

Cas frowned. “You’re one of the best siblings anyone could wish for,” he corrected. “And that’s coming from me, and I’ve got two of them.”

Dean looked up and there was another barely there grin that had Cas’ heart pounding. “Oh?” he asked wryly. “I didn’t know you had any siblings,” he said, scribbling down the answer to a question on a worksheet he’d pulled from his bag.

Cas cocked his head to the side. “Really?” he asked, garnering a confused nod from Dean. “Everyone else knows. Ms. Anna and Gabriel, they work at our school. I think Gabriel’s Sam’s-”

Dean’s head jerked up before he quickly darted to his feet, scooping his previously meticulously organized books into his bag. “Sorry,” he said, not looking at Cas. “Sorry, sorry, I just forgot I had to go to the pharmacy on Wilks Street to get something for Sam.”

Cas stood up worriedly. “Did I do something?” he asked, following Dean quickly out of the library, shooting the lady behind the desk an apologetic look for leaving the books behind. “I didn’t know it mattered to you that our teachers were my siblings,” he said, biting his lip in distress. “I wasn’t going to talk to them about the tutoring.”

Dean set up a brisk pace away from the library. “Nothing, it’s nothing, I'm just busy. Goodbye,” he shot over his shoulder, walking away from the library.

“At least let me give you a ride!” Cas called out desperately. “You just got here!”

“Thanks, I'm fine,” Dean called.

“I’ll just follow you home then to make sure you’re safe, then,” said Cas, finally catching up with Dean and walking with him out of the library parking lot.

Dean paused in his steps, his shoulders shaking slightly. Before he sighed objectively but nodded. “Fine, you can… give me a ride or whatever,” he said dejectedly.

Cas beamed and grabbed Dean’s hand, dragging him to the new car Balth and Hannah had given him for his birthday and nearly shoving Dean into the passenger seat. “Great,” he said energetically, pulling out of the parking lot before Dean could change his mind. “Where do you live?”

Dean rattled off his address after a moment’s hesitation and Cas leisurely drove them there after an inner struggle over the pros and cons of speeding (if he was speeding, Dean would be less likely to jump out of the car, but the ride would be over sooner. He went with a speed a little over half the limit, so pretty fucking slow on the small winding roads.) Cas made small talk with Dean on the way back to his house and it was… pleasant. Not the afternoon of comfortable chatter and companionship he’s been hoping for, but an easy-going "I-guess-we’re-friends-now" half hour.

When Cas finally pulled up in front of Dean’s nice suburban house he turned to face the other boy, just in time to catch the look of disgust upon seeing the house that flickered over Dean’s features. Cas didn’t know how to riddle it out so he decided to ignore it. “I can't believe you walk from here all the way to the library,” he said instead, hoping to talk with Dean for a few more precious moments.

Dean shook his head. “I take the bus halfway there,” he explained. “And it’s not that bad anyways, I walk to school every day.”

Cas’ eyes drifted to the old muscle car in Dean’s driveway. “Your parents busy?” he asked to keep it going.

Dean’s jaw clenched but he nodded. “My dad’s a writer so he likes to always be in his environment when inspiration strikes him,” he said tightly.

Cas nodded again. “And your mom?” he asked. “What does she do?”

Dean’s entire demeanor changed. His hands started to clench and unclench and his eyes hardened, filling with frozen flames. “I haven't seen her in six years,” he said bitterly. “I don’t want to know anything about her.”

Cas was taken aback by the sudden change in Dean’s attitude, but nevertheless the wheels of his mind started to turn. Dean’s mom left six years ago, right around the time Sam had been born. Dean would’ve been ten. That was pretty young to loose a parent, and it seemed like Dean’s father was one of those eccentric, out of touch with the rest of the world authors you read about. So Dean had probably been raising Sam for the kid’s entire life. Cas couldn’t imagine doing that. He’d have to ask Anna and Gabriel about it.

“Sorry,” he apologized quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Dean sighed and the anger seemed to drain out of him. “I’m sorry for snapping,” he said. “You asked an innocent and obvious question and I reacted badly.”

“You’re allowed to.”

“What?”

“You’re allowed to react badly when something hurts you. It’s how people learn that it hurts you and that bringing it up isn’t the best idea. Learning by mistake is the best way to learn.”

“We learn from our mistakes,” said Dean softly, looking out at his house with a strange longing. “Learn who people are by watching theirs. Watching how they handle them.”

Cas nodded gravelly. “Mistakes are the only way people know how to grow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't really know how to end this chapter - it kind of spiraled away from me. Anyway, next chapter should be up soon, and expect more Destiel :)


	9. Small

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny chapter, but the last one was decently long, and this is what I had. Not so much of a chapter as a little side story thrown in. Also, it might suck, but I hope it doesn't (please tell me in the comments if it does). 
> 
> Alternatively titled "Mommy."

Sam and Brady were supposed to be watching a movie his mom had put on, but Sam just couldn’t stand it anymore. He’d moved from the couch to the window seat and was looking out at the yellow-lit pavement, wondering if Dean would come walking down it any minute. He felt like his older brother would, knew in his heart Dean would always be there when Sam wanted him. His big brother. Sam felt so small around him, but not in the way he felt small around some of the mean kids in his class, like he was being dwarfed and scared. No, Dean made him feel small like it was okay for him to not be able to reach for something, and like cuddles and hugs weren’t just tolerated – they were necessary. Dean made Sam feel safe because he _was_ safe with Dean, would always be safe with his brother. Dean would always protect Sam, even if he was getting bigger every day.

“Sam?” asked Brady’s mom quietly entering the room. Brady had fallen asleep on the couch a while ago just before Sam left. In the background of Sam’s vision the TV still displayed the pretty girl running away through the forest with the guy. “Are you okay?” she asked, walking up behind him and putting her hand on his shoulder. “Do you miss your parents?” she asked gently, leaning in front of him, face soft and kind.

“I miss my brother,” said Sam, and he’d never felt so alone, in the dark, in somebody else’s house, not quite sure when Dean would be back.

Brady’s mom’s face softened even more and she picked Sam up, almost like Dean did. Sam wound his little arms around her neck and buried his face in the crook of her shoulder while she gently swayed back and forth.

“Do you want me to call your parents?” she asked softly. “They can pick you up if you want.”

“No,” said Sam, voice muffled in her skin. She smelled sweet, like roses and other flowers. “I want to stay. I just miss him.”

“He’ll be back tomorrow Sam, and you can hug him and tell him everything that happened,” she said.

It suddenly struck Sam that maybe this was what it felt like to have a mom. Sam had been teased before because he didn’t have one, and it always left him feeling a little empty. But in the end he knew he had a better deal in life than any of the other kids in his class, even without a mom. He was the only one with a Dean.

Sam finally smiled and tapped her shoulder. Brady’s mom set him down on the ground and he beamed at her. “Thank you,” he said, before yawning. “I think I'm gonna go to bed now.”

She chuckled and ruffled Sam’s hair. “You do that, Sam,” she assured, straightening up. “Such a brave little boy. If you need me, I’ll be right upstairs, okay?”

Sam nodded and she turned off the movie while Sam crawled under the blankets he and Brady had spread over the couch. She turned off the lights in the room, but just before she left she placed a kiss on Sam’s forehead.

Just before falling asleep, Sam decided that even though he wouldn’t trade Dean for anything in the world, it wouldn’t be so bad to have a mommy too.

* * *

Dean didn’t know what had brought it on as he stared in abject horror from his reflection to his skin, tiny drops of blood spattered over the white porcelain sink. He felt sick to his stomach and – yep, he threw up, just managing to whip around and get to his knees in front of the porcelain god before retching up the tiny scraps of food he’d eaten in the last week.

When he’d finally coughed up enough bile for his body to realize he had nothing left to give he slumped forward, resting his cheek against the cool sink, breath heavy and pain resurfacing in his mind. As much as he hated to admit it – for a few moments it had helped. A calm had settled over him as he watched blood slowly drip from the cuts he’d placed on his wrists. He’d like to say he’d regretted it instantly but… Dean lied twenty-four seven, he tried not to lie to himself. He’d also like to say it was the first time, but it wasn’t. And it probably wouldn’t be the last either.

Maybe it was the empty house, the feeling of nothing pervading his core because that one person who would mourn him should he die? Yeah, that person had other people too. Sam had friends, wouldn’t always need Dean, didn’t need him just then. Maybe that was what made Dean feel like the building ball of desperation and pain in his chest had to be exposed somehow.

The knife he’d used was always the same one. A small green pocket knife his dad had given him on his eleventh birthday, one of the only three gifts his father had ever given him that weren’t cuts or bruises. He’d only ever used the knife to relieve that terrible feeling in his chest, to put more air in his lungs. It still hurt dreadfully of course, physical pain only partially drowning out emotional, but there was another feeling added to the mix. Control. Control over his own body, something Dean so rarely had. Because for _once_ it wasn’t John hurting him. John didn’t control everything – this, this Dean had control over.

Despite the slightly drunken feeling making his body heavy, Dean stumbled to his feet and flushed the toilet with a grimace at the smell only now reaching him. He rinsed the sink, glad for the bleach he left under it to get rid of stains John was the cause of, just in case anyone ever came a knocking. Not that they ever did, but Dean was ever the optimist.

Dean resolutely ignored his reflection, not wanting to see the desperate and broken boy he knew would be staring back at him. He didn’t want to see how small and weak that boy was without his little brother there to put on a mask for.

John could never know, Dean knew. Dean, in the eyes of John, was nothing more than his personal punching bag and john wouldn’t take kindly to anyone other than him hurting Dean. John was the crowned king of hypocrites, but Dean knew if john found out…. Well, he’d end up worse of than a few slit wrists.


	10. Giveaway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--SUPER IMPORTANT MESSAGE--  
> For those of you reading along as this is published, I just updated the last chapter and added a lot, and it's very important to the story. Please go reread chapter nine before reading this. Thank you!
> 
> Also, this chapter is very dark. Tags have been updated, so if you have triggers please read those before proceeding - or not - with caution.

“Come on,” said Dean, scooping Sam up and carrying him down the rest of the steps. “Don’t wanna be late for school, kiddo. I’ll make you some toast, k bud?”

“I want Lucky Charms,” Sam whined, tugging lightly on Dean’s hair.

Dean winced but nodded. “Whatever you want, Sammy,” he promised, kissing his brother’s temple and earning squeals of “ewwww!”

Dean walked into the kitchen with Sam on his hip before he placed Sam down on his high chair – the kid absolutely insisted he have it despite being six – before moving to the cabinet. Dean absently pulled his sleeves down so they covered his wrists, not noticing that they slid back down when he reached for the colorful box perched on the top shelf.

“You want milk or not?” Dean asked, taking out a bowl and pouring the cereal into the porcelain and listening to the comforting clinking noises it made.

“Milk!” Sam demanded, banging tiny fists on the table. Dean smiled obligingly and ruffled his little brother’s hair.

“Okay, bud,” he said, opening the fridge and pulling out the almost empty carton.

When Dean turned around he froze on instinct the moment his eyes landed on John standing in the doorway. The scruffy man was watching the normal morning interaction with confusion and anger mixing dangerously in his eyes.

“Hey J- dad,” said Dean warily after a moment. He moved towards Sam and strategically placed himself between the now silent boy and his father while he poured the last of the milk into Sam’s bowl. He tried to ignore John, but the man always had a powerful presence, demanding attention. He couldn’t ignore the man, couldn’t forget he was there. But in that moment he forgot maybe the most important thing.

“What happened to your arms?”

Dean froze at John’s viscous snap, hand stilling instantly in Sam’s hair, eyes drifting to his bared wrists in horror. After a second of drowning in terror, he jumped back and yanked the shirt down.

“Nothing, nothing,” Dean said quickly. “Just – I hurt myself at school. Fell – fell on some broken glass in the parking lot,” he finished weakly with a wince, fingers locked around his wrist.

John’s eyes narrowed and he strode forward, growling at Dean. The younger Winchester automatically backed up, hitting the counter as babbled excuses fell off his lips. John ignored him and grabbed his collar, pulling his into the air and cutting of Dean’s oxygen. Sam’s cries reached Dean’s ears even as he gasped painfully for breath, hands grappling for his father.

“You think in an idiot?” he snarled, grip tightening as he shoved his face into his older son’s. “The fuck’s wrong with you?!” John spit as Sam started screaming, trying to struggle out of his child restrictive high chair. “God damn it, I knew you were a failure, I didn’t know how much of a fuck-up you were! Too weak to deal, huh? You think you got it bad, fagot?”

Dean cringed away from the words thrown at him, only tensing his father’s grip. Dean gagged uselessly as wafts of whiskey and vodka blew over his face from his father’s breath.

“You ain’t never been in a war – you ain’t never lost you wife! You ain’t never had to go through everyday knowing your son was some cock-sucking fagot going to burn in Hell or die of AIDS! You ain’t never have to know that your kid was a failure! I know it, Mary knows, hell I'm sure Sam knows it too!” John hollered, slamming Dean against the counter.

“Shut up!” Sam screamed, tears cascading down his face.

John ignored him. “You too _weak_ , too _useless_ to take a few hits and walk a kid too school, huh? Too much of a fairy? I thought fagots and bitches knew how to take care of kids!”

John suddenly dropped Dean to the floor and Dean gasped for breath pitifully, trying to scramble away. His father’s booted foot in his gut punched the little air he was able to get into his lungs out of him. Dean was given any time to recover from the blow before John grabbed his hair and dragged him from the room. Dean desperately tried to kick out of the grasp and when that failed he grabbed futilely at the doorframe, trying to slow his movement and maybe get back to Sam. John growled and slammed his boot down on the hand. Dean let his first scream of the beating escape him as his fingers crunched together. He let go and couldn’t put up any more resistance as his father dragged him into the living room and out of sight of Sammy.

Dean would’ve passed out from the pain in his hand but Sam’s terrified screams kept him struggling for consciousness. He couldn’t leave Sam alone. “Sammy,” he croaked uselessly, earning a kick to his ribs that had him moaning. John let go of his hair and sent Dean sprawling to the floor, but his respite was short-lived before the first kick connected with his jaw.

“I should’ve known you were such a bitch,” John snarled, “the way you act like one around him-” kick “-trying ta be his mommy. You aren’t his-” punch “-mother, though I'm sure you’ve-” kick “-tried to be one before. Takin’ it up the ass like a-” kick “-whore. I am his father-” punch “- and you have _always_ disrespected me.”

John grabbed his son’s bruised jaw and raised Dean’s bleeding face to his. Dean’s nose had been broken by a heavy stomp on his face. “Not anymore,” John hissed.

John threw Dean to the floor again and Dean screamed for the second time as his full body weight landed on his smashed hand. Dean’s head was spinning in pain to the point where he didn’t notice John’s movement until he was rolled onto his back and pinned, revealed arms flung out to the side and trapped under his father’s grip. He didn’t see the knife in his father’s hand, didn’t know it was there until the blade cut deep into the skin on his forearm.

John shoved Dean’s face into the floor when Dean screamed and thrashed under his father’s heavy weight, only pushing the blade in further. All he could do was whimper around his throbbing jaw without causing blackout amounts of pain.

“Thought you liked this,” John hissed, pushing the blade slowly from Dean’s elbow to his wrist before yanking it out and tearing a heart-shattering scream from Dean. “Don’t like it anymore, huh? Can't fucking take it like the bitch you are.”

John raised the knife and his knee ground down painfully into Dean’s thigh as his weight shifted. He flipped Dean onto his back and ran the knife across Dean’s tear-stained cheek, drawing a thin line of blood on Dean’s face as he watched his son with sudden rapture. “You look so much like you mother,” John whispered, amber eyes unfocused as they stared into Dean’s green ones. Dean hiccupped. The younger Winchester knew his father wasn’t really seeing him, but hid mother – the mother that had left Dean and Sam with John six years earlier, not even bothering to call or check in. Dean could remember her, had loved her with everything thing he had, and he knew his mother hadn’t been happy with John, no matter how much he loved her. And john really had loved her. Dean used to believe that maybe if he had been a better son his parents would be happier with each other. But no matter how hard he tried, Mary left.

Everybody left.

Dean flinched when his father swept the knife from his temple to his nose, crossing over the cut he’d already left on Dean’s cheek. “Bet you’ve taken it before, haven't you?” John whispered, leaning forward and nosing into Dean’s bruised neck, breathing harshly. “Taken a cock up like a bitch. Bet you’d take it good too,” he hummed, licking the side of Dean’s neck and earning a full body shudder from Dean as he squeezed his eyes hut and begged for a non-existent deity to kill him before it cam to this. “Bet you could take mine,” John whispered, hands sliding down to Dean’s pants and fondling his thoroughly un-aroused dick. “I’d make you suck me first,” John whispered and Dean’s tears increased when he felt his father hardening above him. “Shove my cock down your throat until you chocked on it, until tears spilt from your eyes. Crap those sinful lips around me until I came. You’d like it too,” he hummed, rutting against Dean’s bloody body. Dean’s broken ribs cried out in pain but only a whimper escaped Dean. “Then I’d split you open on my cock, shove so deep into you that you could taste me, paint your insides with my cum until nobody else would ever dream of touching you. Only mine. No one else would dare.”

“Don’t,” Dean managed to croak out.

John suddenly pulled back, rage flaring powerfully in his eyes, all trace of gentleness and love for the wife that had left him gone.

“Fagot,” he spit. “You don’t deserve shit, you fucker, I hope you know that. If I told you to take my cock you would, and you’d do it graciously, worthless slut.” His weight pressed firmly over Dean’s chest and black dots danced in front of Dean’s eyes. Dean stilled, finally focusing in on the feeling of the blood pouring from his arm. There was a lot – way too much. He wouldn’t be conscious soon and then – then what would John do?

Dean was vaguely aware of John’s weight lifting off his body, but all he could really focus on was the pain and – and Sam’s cries. Sammy was crying and John was gone. Where had he gone?

“Sammy,” Dean croaked, twitching his hand towards the kitchen, towards his brother, before he was unable to stop the darkness from claiming him.


	11. Wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter got such a major response in the comments, which makes me feel even worse about not updating in _forever_. Thanks to everyone who commented, I wouldn't have gotten it done this "quickly" if not for you. Please tell me what you think in the comments. Hopefully this is at least partially worth the wait.

Castiel tapped his pen on the hardwood table he was seated at, hardly three questions into his homework assignment despite having been there for an hour. He kept loosing himself in thoughts about Dean and why he hadn’t shown up yet. Granted, they were only supposed to meet half an hour ago, but Cas was excited to see his friend and knew if he stayed in the house, Anna and Gabriel would pester him about why he was nervous until he spilled. Castiel didn’t think Anna would be subtle enough not to spill Cas’ secrets to Dean in class by accident.

Cas glanced towards the door of the library for the sixty-ninth time. No Dean in sight. The puppet show Cas had been planning on taking Sam to was well underway, so the kid would just have to sit with them for a bit or find some other kid in the library to play with – whichever option Sam preferred. Or whichever one Dean wanted to boy to partake. It was his choice really.

Dean would make such a great dad one day. Hell, he already was a great dad. Cas didn’t see them together much outside of the library, but the way the pair gravitated around each other and the way Sam talked to his brother, it was reminiscent of those earlier years of his life and the way he looked at Anna and Gabe. They were his parents, even if they all had the same biological parents. It seemed like Dean and Sam were the same, although Cas wasn’t sure why. Probably the same reasons as him and his older siblings. Distant parents who didn’t have enough hours in the day and kids who were far enough apart in age that one was old enough to take care of the other.

After two hours forty-one minutes, nineteen texts, three missed calls, six math problems, and no less than two hundred seventy-four glances towards the door, Cas finally decided that Dean wasn’t coming today. He stood up with a deep sigh and scooped his books into his messenger bag as slowly as he could and putting back the few books he’d taken down, Cas left. And stood on the steps of the library for another fifteen minutes before he sighed and sullenly walked down the steps and got into his car. And waited another ten minutes.

Dean hadn’t been to school on Friday, and according to Gabriel Sam hadn’t been either. It was possible one of them was sick, but if three days later it was still bad enough to warrant complete radio silence, then that called for a – very small – panic. Cas fought it down though because he wanted to go home without crashing his new car.

Cas thankfully made it home accident-free and parked in their house’s driveway with practiced ease. He hopped out of his car and let his feet drag as he walked to the front door of him home.

“Gabe, Anna, I'm home,” he called once the door was open.

“In the kitchen!” he heard Anna respond, and he made his way down the halls. Anna had her back to Cas, quickly stirring something in a pot and humming under her breath. “How is Dean?” she asked easily, still not looking.

Cas dropped into a chair by the kitchen island with a sigh. “He didn’t show up,” he said, aware he was pouting childishly by not really caring.

Anna paused and turned to her little brother, concern on her face. “He didn’t?” she asked, earning a shake of Cas’ head in response. She set down the pot she was holding slowly. “He wasn’t at school on Friday either,” she mused. “Do you think he’s sick?”

“I don’t know, but Sam might be down with something,” he said with an only slight miserable shrug.

Anna cracked a smile at her brother’s sulk. “Aw, Cassie, you worried you got stood up?” she asked, grinning.

Cas blushed furiously and stuck his tongue out at her. “No,” he said quickly, crossing his arms and looking away. “I’m just worried about him. And Sam.”

Anna’s smile softened and she walked around the island to place her hands on Cas’ shoulders, pressing lightly in an offering of comfort they’ve been using since before Castiel knew how to talk. “I'm sure he’s fine,” she said softly, leaning in close. “Dean’s a smart kid, and a strong one. If he’s sick, he’ll get better soon. If Sam’s sick, Dean will take care of him. I'm sure you’ll see them both tomorrow.”

Cas relaxed slowly under the comforting presence and nodded. “I think – if he doesn’t show up for school tomorrow, I might drop by his house and see if he’s alright, okay?” he asked, craning his neck to look at the redhead.

Anna smiled softly and kissed his forehead. “You are such a great friend, Cassie,” she said, stroking his wild curls. “Dean really needs that.”

“I know,” Cas responds quietly. Then he pauses. “I – think I need to tell you and Gabriel something,” he says, catching his lip between his teeth.

Anna, as smart as she is, instantly catches onto Cas’ serious in whatever he needs to tell them and she nods solemnly, frowning slightly. “Is it about Dean?” she asks.

Cas cocks his head to the side and looks away. “A tiny bit, I guess,” he says. “But he’s just – a factor. It’s about me.”

Anna nods like what he’s saying actually makes sense, before turning off the stove and calling Gabriel down. They all settle into the living room, Cas seated across from his guardians. He clasps his hands in front of him and then unclasps them a few times before he looks up to meet their concerned gazes.

“Are you okay, Cassie?” Gabriel asks. Cas nods silently. “You know you can tell us anything, right?” his brother probes further. “If your having friend issues or whatever.”

“I know,” says Cas. He quickly takes a deep breath as though reeling in his courage. “I’m gay,” he blurts out, receiving surprised looks from his siblings. “I like guys. I mean, guys romantically – and sexually and all that. Just guys.” Cas ducks his head to look at his hands. “I’ve known for a long time I guess, since I first started hanging out with Dean at the library. And I know you guys are totally accepting and all, and I shouldn’t be worried about you not liking me any more and that’s not why I'm telling you. I know you’ll love me no matter what. I didn’t tell you because – I wasn’t ready to. Now I am though, and I – I really like Dean,” he says, words pouring out of his mouth in a rush, and he finally looks up when the last words pass his lips. “I like him a lot.”

Anna is the first to recover from the torrent of words, and she smiles at Cas and stands up, dropping onto the couch on his left. Gabriel quickly follows her lead and sits on Cas’ right. Their arms loop around Cas’ shoulders and they pull him into a hug.

“Thanks for telling us, kiddo,” says Gabriel, and Cas can feel his grin against his hair. “I don’t know if Dean likes guys or not, but if he does, then he’d be an idiot not to fall in love with your adorkable self.”

“I think it’ll all work out in the end,” Anna adds, squeezing Cas tightly. “Everything. We love you so, so much, Cas. You don’t even know.”

“I love you too,” says Cas, throat a little tight and eyes a little hot but his core only filled with love. “I love you guys.”

“Aw, this is so sweet,” Gabriel grins. “I think I might have a cavity.”

“That’ll be from all the sweets you eat, not all this fluff,” Anna says, and Cas can hear the happy tears in her voice. She clears her throat though, and pulls back a little, looking Cas in the eyes. “Cas, now that you’ve told us this, I know yo don't want to but I think we need to talk about safe sex.”

Cas groans painfully, but he can't hide his smile.

 

Cas is leaning against his car, squinting at the door of the nice white house across the street from him. It’s quite literally the suburban dream, right down to the neatly trimmed bright green from yard and the spotless white picket fence. The only thing at all out of place is the old, beaten up car in the driveway. Cas thinks he likes that best though.

Dean didn’t show up for school again, so Cas did as he’d told Anna he would and drove straight from sixth period to Dean’s corner of Heaven – or Hell, depending on who in suburbia you asked.

With a sigh, he heaves himself off the car and crosses the empty street, knocking firmly on the door and waiting for someone to answer it, hoping for it to be Dean.

Who actually answers is quite possibly the opposite of Cas' hopes.

A scruffy, un-put together man wrenches the door open in his late forties. His clothes are old and dirty and his beard has gone a few too many days without a shave or a trim. He looks as out of place as a cardinal in a grouping of blue jays in the suburbs, but not nearly so pretty or graceful.

“Who’re you?” the man grumbles, voice thick and accented.

Cas blinks in surprise for a moment before he remembers himself and holds out his hand, albeit a little warily. “I’m Castiel, sir, a friend of Dean’s? This is his house right?”

The man turns his lips up at Cas’ hand. “A friend of Dean’s? That must be a first,” he sneers, and suddenly Cas has to fight off the very real urge to punch this man in the face for insulting Dean. “Sorry kid, Dean won’t be coming out to play for a while,” he said, before slamming the door. Cas was set to start banging on the door and demanding what had happened when the smell, caused by the swift movement and kick up of wind the slamming door had created, reaching him. It smelled like copper, old pennies, and rotting apples.

It smelled like blood.


	12. Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Mistakes have been fixed, and I apologize for the confusion.
> 
> This chapter felt a little lop-sided and short to me, but I hope you enjoy it.

He ached. His vision fluttered on and off. Nothing felt like it was working right. He couldn’t breathe, could hardly think…. Dean could almost feel reality slipping away from him after days in some suspended, dark hell where he’d been floating. There was nothing in that abyss besides blackness and pain. Dean didn’t know if he was dead already, really, but this feeling… this was a little different. He could feel things around him, make out glaring bright colors as his eyes flitted open and closed. He was… on his back, maybe. Definitely pushed against something hard. But what was pushing him? Restraints? Or Gravity? He couldn’t tell.

Suddenly his eyes snapped wide, a groan wrenching from his abused throat and his head whipped to the side quick enough to have him seeing stars – and yeah, that probably wasn’t good.

But it didn’t matter, didn’t matter how much his body ached, how much his legs protested and his head spun, because that was _Sammy_ crying, sobbing. Why… Dean couldn’t remember what had happened, but John had to have gotten to him and… and Sam was….

Dean suddenly remembered; he’d been making Sam breakfast and John… oh _god_ , John had seen his scars. He had… he had….

Dean listed to the side dangerously in his struggle to right himself and slammed back onto the floor. Pain exploded around his chest, efficiently cutting off all of his coherent thoughts. He would’ve screamed but his throat couldn’t make the noise and all that came out was a half choked yelp.

Dean remained panting on the floor for a good five minutes before he even attempted to try again. He managed to make it to his feet only after falling down six times. He stumbled forward a few feet before almost falling again, this time managing to catch himself on the couch. Dean swallowed thickly. John had never hurt him this badly before. Looking back at the spot where he’d been passed out, he confirmed that it was sticky with half dried blood – and a lot of it. His entire side and back was caked in the red goo and his sight was swimming and filled with black spots. He could hardly think.

Nevertheless, he still managed to stumble his way into the kitchen, clutching to things with his left hand, his right hand useless and mangled. The cut on his arm had opened up again, if the sluggish warmth dripping down his arm was anything to testify by. Sam wasn’t in the kitchen when he stumbled in, and a whimper worked its way up his throat as his legs finally gave out under him. Sam was gone. Where was Sam? How many days had Dean been out? _Where was Sam?_

 

 

Cas arrives home, his whole body shaking with nerves. He’d banged on the door again until Dean’s dad had answered and Cas had demanded to know why it smelled like blood. The scruffy man had rolled his eyes and said that a dog had been run over earlier that morning and the smell was still lingering before slamming the door in Cas’ face. Shaken up and a little embarrassed at getting so worked up so quickly, Cas had left and wobbly feet and collapsed into his car, where he let the adrenaline fade away from his body before he even attempted to drive. Safety first, as Anna always incessantly reminded him.

Still without answers as to why Dean and Sam aren’t in school, Cas drives home slowly, letting his mind mull things over. In the very far depths of his conscious thought, Cas might realize what’s going on. He’s not an idiot – no one’s seen Dean in days, his house smells like blood, his dad is a dick, it’s not that hard to put the pieces together. But Cas refuses to admit it to himself until the last moment, and so by sheer force of will, he pushes his suspicions back as far as they will go.

Cas pulls up to his large Victorian house and slowly climbs out of his car. He seems to be doing everything in a daze, like a fog has descended and the only thing he can focus on is walking without tripping.

“Hey Cas, how was Dean?” Anna asks, looking up from her laptop.

“I don’t know,” Cas says numbly, and Anna has discarded her computer and is standing up, holding Cas’ upper arms before the teen can blink.

“What’s wrong?” Anna demands, eyes scanning Cas as though looking for an injury, which really doesn’t make sense. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Cas says, shaking some sense back into himself and roughly shrugging Anna’s hands off him. “Dean’s dad, I guess, opened the door and said Dean was – busy I suppose. Real prick, that guy,” Cas grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. “He said Dean wasn’t going to be out for a while.”

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Cas looks up and meets Anna’s eyes, confusion in his own. “No,” he says, brow scrunching. “Why would he?”

Relief fills Anna’s posture and again, there’s that little voice in the back of his mind that’s screaming at Cas to see what’s happening and do something about it, but Cas ignores it, pushes it down. He doesn’t want to think about it.

But sometimes, the universe – God, Allah, Buddha, whatever you think is out there – decides it’s time for you to hear.

The front door burst open, and Anna and Cas both whipped around to face a harried Gabriel – with a small, crying child in his arms.

Sam turned his tearstained face up to Cas, his lip quivering and his eyes wide and sacred. “Please,” he begged, wiggling in Gabriel’s arm. “Save my brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins.
> 
> Ugh, I am such a terrible person. I take forever to update and then leave every single chapter on a cliffhanger.  
> Also, some of the tags have been taken down because I've changed my mind from the way this story was originally supposed to end. I just couldn't make it work. Nothing in past chapter have been changed though. I hope to update soon.


	13. Your Turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dont really know if this chapter makes any linear since, as it was written in two separate sittings. Please comment with any errors.

Sam was sobbing pitifully at the table when John stumbled in. Sam only started howling at that; John was covered in the red-sticky that always made Dean wince and make scary choking sounds in his throat. Gabriel said it was called blood when a girl in his class, Ruby, cut her finger. He said it meant someone was hurt and that you should always get your parents or a teacher when you or your friend had it. But John was the one who put it on Dean, and Dean always insisted that “ _we can't tell anyone Sammy, we can't, okay, don’t ever, ever do it, I'm okay,_ ” so Sam didn’t follow Mr. Gabriel’s rules. Dean told him some rules were there to keep him safe, but some rules were stupid. Like John’s rule about them sleeping in their own rooms. That was a stupid rule.

“Shut up!” John snapped at Sam, and Sam caught his breath in fear, tears still streaming freely down his face. “Stop crying,” John grumbled, but he turned away from Sam and opened the fridge. He pulled out a bottle of the smelly drink and hit it against the counter, before taking a long pull of the stuff. Sam crinkled his nose and looked away, trying in vain to lean out of the stupid restraining chair and into the living room. Of course Dean had been right when he said that Sam should try the normal chairs; Dean was always right. If Sam had listened to him, he could help Dean right now.

Sam had been sick all through the weekend, and Dean hadn’t left his side once, hadn’t even checked his phone. Sam had been so miserable, curled up in bed, his nose and head hurting, and Dean had just cooed and stroked his hair.

_“You’ll be all better by tomorrow,_ ” he promised with a small smile, when Sam cried about how they were missing their weekly Sunday at the library with Cas. “ _I’ll bring Cas around to see you, okay_?”

Sure enough, Sam wasn’t sick, and he was going to see Cas, but then John had found them. He’d heard his father say something about Dean’s wrists, but he didn’t understand that. And he’d heard the words spewing out of John’s mouth – words Sam didn’t know the meanings of. But he had been able to tell by the look on Dean’s face, like someone had stabbed a nice into his gut, that the words were meant as bullets and that they’d hit their target.

“Shut up, kid!” John shouted, slamming the bottle down hard on the table, hard enough Sam thought for a moment it would break. He almost wished it would break, and then John would get hurt like he hurt Dean.

That sudden, unplanned thought scared Sam more than John in the room with him. It was bad to want to hurt people, even worse to do so. John hurt Dean and it made Dean sad, and that made John a bad person. But… but Sam wanted John to get hurt. Did that make him bad? Mr. Gabriel said kids were like their parents, and so if John was bad… did that make Sam bad too?

The immediacy of his inner turmoil froze Sam’s tears and he caught his breath. Wide brown eyes followed John as the man walked around, studying Sam, seemingly confused by his sudden silence. He didn’t seem to care that much, because after a shrug and a shake of his head, John just turned away and took a long drink from the colored bottle.

The back of John’s shirt didn’t have much of the red-sticky on it as his front did, and tears once again welled in Sam’s eyes – this time because of relief. Sam didn’t know how much blood you had to loose before you died, but he had the common sense to realize that the less there was, the better. Sam just wished there was less of it than there was.

John was watching him now, eyes narrowed and critiquing as he gripped his beer tightly, lips wound up in a sneer. Sam felt like he did at the winter concert at their school, like every eye in the room was watching him, waiting for him to make a mistake. Except then, he’s found Dean’s face, smiling and proud, eyes shining in the audience as he clapped the loudest and cheered the most excitably. Now though, Dean was in the other room and it looked like a large part of him was splattered on John’s clothing.

Sam shuddered at the thought, hated thinking about any part of Dean having to touch the monster presented before him.

“Why you just sitting there, boy?” John barked in the stillness of the room. Sam jerked in his seat, but didn’t fall out – and that was the problem right there. He couldn’t get out of the stupid seat, couldn’t go find Dean.

Sam felt cold all over, like the monster in the book he’s found in Mr. Gabriel’s class had gotten a hold of him. The one about the misty creature that sent little kids into a deep sleep. He’d had nightmares every day for a week about the monster, and every time he woke up with a cry caught in his throat, Dean had been there, with popcorn and a glass of orange juice, and Dean had sung him “Hey Jude” until he’d fallen asleep. Dean made the nightmares go away each time.

Sam summoned the courage Dean gave him on those nights and turned his tearstained face up to John, curling his fists tightly as though he could catch bravery in his little palms. “I can't get down,” he said, and his voice sounded small, but it didn’t shake. “Dean always brings me down.”

John snorted in derision and downed a good part of the bottle. “Stupid fucker,” he muttered under his breath. Before setting it down on the counter. He moved forward and pulled Sam’s chair away from the table, leaning his hands against it and pushing his face close to Sam’s. Unable to help himself, the little boy started to cry again, little hiccupping gasps; he could smell the sticky-red and the rotting stench of John’s drink. His tears were stopped by a hard slap to the side of his face that literally shocked him into silence. He stared at John’s snarling face, and it set in a little further; Dean wasn’t here. Dean couldn’t help him. Dean _always_ blocked the hits.

“You listen here, you little brat,” John seethed. “I was away on a business trip, got it? Left today and told your brother to take care of you, hear me? And he put you here and left the room. You heard bangs and loud sounds, but you didn’t know what they were. That’s what you tell whoever finds you, got it? That’s what happened. Dean killed himself. You don’t know why. He left you in here. Got it?” Sam started sobbing terribly; he was so, so scared. Was Dean dead? John shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Got it!” John shouted in his face and Sam hiccupped and nodded. John let go and stood back, grabbing his beer. He grabbed a cloth off the counter and tied it around Sam’s mouth, despite the child’s best efforts to bite off his fingers. “Your brother put that there when you started crying, hear me boy?” John snarled. “You don’t know why.”

John left after Sam nodded his agreement to the story through his tears.

Sam couldn’t see the clock from where he was sitting, but he knew hours had passed by the time the knock came at the door. The sun was slanted through the window a little, had slowly progressed along the cracked linoleum tiles all day. Sam’s tears had dried against his cheeks, and his mouth was dry from the rag shoved in it. He was so, so thirsty. His heart sped up as he wondered if he was going to die today.

After the knocking continued (Sam prayed it was someone here to help, not just someone selling products) he finally heard John clumping down the stairs, spewing curses as he went. He couldn’t see the door, but he heard it open.

“Who’re you?” he heard John grumbled out, which meant it probably wasn’t a salesman.

"I’m Castiel, sir, a friend of Dean’s? This is his house right?”

Sam’s heart leapt into his throat and he frantically tried to shout around the gag. He didn’t succeed. But it didn’t matter – Cas was hear, and Cas could help.

“A friend of Dean’s? That must be a first,” he  hears John sneer. Sam closes his eyes and prays that Cas won’t leave them. “Sorry kid, Dean won’t be coming out to play for a while.”

Oh god, what does that mean? The door slams again, but Sam knows Cas is confused too because he hears the boy’s continued shouts and hears his fists banging on the door, until John wrenched it open and spouts out some excuse about a dog getting hit on the street. Sam silently begs that Cas won’t believe him when the door slams again, but this time, there is no further knocking. Cas left.

Sam hears John stomping around upstairs before the clomps move down the front staircase and the door slams open and shut, and then the sound of the Impala roars through the house.

John is gone.

But so is Cas.

And Sam really had thought he was all cried out.

Once the new bout of tears has subsided, he lays his small head down on the tray in front of him and thinks. He thinks about how Dean put him in the chair, how his hands moved and where they went. It’s up to him now, for the first time, to rescue his brother. Sam can't be the little kid running up the stairs anymore.

Sam is ashamed at how long it takes him to find the latch, and how much longer it takes of struggling in the awkward bent position before he unclips it – and promptly tumbled out and onto the floor. All in all, it’s completely embarrassing, but no one is around to see it and there are more important things

Sam rips the cloth out of his mouth and gags. His small hands open the fridge and he grabs a little bottle of water, one of the ones Dean bought just for him. He takes a few desperate gulps before dropping it on the ground and running out of the room.

Sam throws up in the entrance to the living room.

It’s partly because of the smell and partly because of the sight.

Dean is sprawled in a pool of blood that’s drying and crackling along bruised skin. His face is pale and he isn’t moving.

Sam runs to him, tears streaming down his face as little hands press against his stomach. “Dean!” he cries, pushing down hard. He doesn’t get a response, but Dean’s skin isn’t cold yet. That’s good right? That means he isn’t dead, right? Oh please, let him still be alive.

Sam pressed a salty kiss to Dean’s cheek and runs a hand through stiff hair.

“I’m gonna find someone to help Dean, okay?” he says, voice scratchy. “I’ll make sure you’re okay.”

Sam slowly backs away from his brother, before sprinting to the door and tumbling outside for the first time since Thursday, before he got sick. The sun is still high and all the cars normally parked on the street are gone, the houses empty. No one is home.

Sam has never walked anywhere alone before, Dean was always with him. But Dean isn’t right now and his big brother needs help. So, fighting his own terror, Sam runs down the path in front of his house and starts off in the only direction he knows to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm getting onto a decent upload schedule. Yay me.
> 
> Sorry if this wasn't clear, but basically Dean didn't go to school on Friday or the library because Sam was sick. He wasn't at school on Monday due to John's attack.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I know nothing about high chairs or how they work.


	14. Clouds

Everything was… white. But that wasn’t exactly right, it wasn’t white… grayish. A little blue, maybe? But also black. It was… clear? Yeah. It was clear.

It was quiet, but not the kind of quiet that happens at night when you’re lying in your bed, eyes closed and just teetering on the edge of sleep. Not the kind of quiet when you’re in class and everyone has gone silent while they desperately study for the test the following day. Not the quiet of standing in the middle of the street in the day, not a single car passing by for who knows how long.

A different kind of quiet. There was no noise, but it wasn’t silent. It was just… quiet.

Dean kind of liked it here.

It felt like he was walking on a cloud. Or like he was the cloud. One of those. Clouds were nice… just big fluffy things in the sky that imagination and the proper tilt of a head could turn into anything. It was good, this being a cloud. Simple, pleasant, enjoyable. Clouds didn’t feel, and they didn’t hurt. They simply existed and existed until they did not.

Dean figured that if clouds could think, he’d be wondering whether he was dead right now. He didn’t much care though, didn’t quite feel like putting in the effort to leave this soft, clear, quiet place he’d found. It was peaceful. No one ever had to think in a place like this.

If people were more like clouds, the world would be a much nicer place.

           

_Like lightning, Dean was torn away._

_"Clear!” someone was shouting, shattering that soft quiet and Dean pulled away from the noise on instinct. The quiet was so much nicer than this._

_“BP is dropping – he’s losing blood fast!”_

_"Get his heart beating!”_

_Clouds didn’t shout or scream._

_There was a sudden, sharp, aching pain in his chest, like hot plates pushed against his body and Dean’s body shuddered against his own purpose. He wanted to stay still. And besides, that_ hurt _. Nothing in cloud-land hurt._

_Dean pulled away from the pain, tried to fly back up into the clouds._

 

He was floating again, but this time it wasn’t in whitish clear. It was blue now. but it was… cold. Very cold. His fingers were blue. All around was blue. Dark blue almost black, and so very, very cold.

Dean shivered. He didn’t like this. He wanted to be in the clouds – the clouds were nice. He liked clouds… clouds and… something.

What else did he like? It was so hard to remember when he was so cold. The dark seemed to blind him to everything, even his memories. And he had something very important he needed to remember. Something….

Dean pushed one hand up through whatever was around him – a sloshing sound hit his ears and suddenly Dean realized he was wet… water. He was in the water. The ocean? It wasn’t as nice as the clouds.

Dean put his other up and _pushed_ – it was hard to push on water, but Dean thought he might’ve moved.

He needed to get back. Not to the clouds – although Dean’s heart filled with longing at the thought – but to whatever it was he couldn’t remember. He was needed. Someone needed him.

Dean put his arm out again. He needed to get back.


	15. Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I updated. Sorry for the misleading message, but saying this work was on 'indefinite hiatus,' was mostly my way of saying that I am never sure when or if this story will be updating, and as you know, it happens slowly. Sorry for the distress that obviously caused some people. Hope you like the chapter anyway.

Gabriel’s face was deathly pale as he clutched his hands together tightly. This… could not be happening. Why hadn't he done anything sooner? They’d known something was wrong and – and they’d done _nothing_. Nothing until Dean was _dying_ , bleeding out from wounds inflicted by his father.

Gabriel slowly bowed his head and clasped his hands together.

He did something he hadn't done in a long time.

Taking a deep breath, Gabriel began to murmur. “ _Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven_. _I ask only for your forgiveness, and your help._ ”

 ---

Dean sat in a car, drumming his fingers on the door handle. He wasn’t driving – no his mother sat in the seat, hands on the wheel, face turned away from Dean to look down the road. The turn signal was on, and a steady, constant beeping filled the car.

_Beep… beep… beep…._

The road was clear, but Mary didn’t turn down it. Sam was sleeping in the back seat.

_Beep… beep… beep…._

“Mom?” Dean asked after a few minutes, the car still idling on the road, Mary making no move to turn the vehicle.

_Beep… beep… beep…._

“Mom, are you going to turn?” Dean asked. Mary didn’t look at him.

“I don’t know which way to go,” she murmured, and Dean shifted up.

Glancing at the dashboard he said, “Well the turn signal says we’re going right, so….” Dean shook his head, suddenly feeling tired.

_Beep… beep… beep…._

“But what if we’re supposed to go left?” Mary asked, finally turning to look at Dean. Her eyes were completely black and the tips of her hair were singed.

Dean shrugged. “Well, I guess we won’t know if we were supposed to until we turn right,” he suggested, then looked around the car. “Where are we going?” he asked suddenly.

_Beep… beep… beep…._

“You need to go home.” Dean whirled in his seat at the sudden voice, and came face to face with Sam. Black eyes sat in the middle of his young face.

“What do you mean, Sammy?” Dean asked, shaking his head against the fuzziness.

“You need to go home,” Sam repeated.

“I can't remember if it’s left or right,” Mary interjected forlornly.

_Beep… beep… beep…._

“Go home, please Dean,” Sam said, shifting forward. “I need you.”

“I’m right here, Sammy,” Dean said worriedly.

“Left or right, left or right,” Mary murmured.

“It’s your choice Dean,” Sam said, frowning up at Dean. “Which was is home?”

Dean faced forward once again in his seat. And looked down both sides of the road. “I don’t recognize this street,” he said.

“Left or right, Dean?” asked Sam.

Dean shuddered and closed his eyes. _Left or right._

_Beep… beep… beep…._

He only had one chance.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

He had to get it right.

_Beep, beep, beep._

Dean grabbed the steering wheel.

\---

Dean woke up slowly from the dream. The beeping continued, but this time instead of the quiet rumble of a car, it was overlaid with the soft cadence of a voice.

“ _’Go back?’ he thought. ‘No good at all! Go sideways? Impossible! Go forward? Only thing to do! On we go!_ ’”

Dean blinked his eyes open as the familiar words washed over him, and he looked up towards the source of the voice, before his eyes widened in surprise.

“Cas?” he croaked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from J.R.R Tolkien's "The Hobbit"


End file.
